


Reprise

by MDJensen



Series: Honest Songs/Distillery 'verse [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Raising a baby, Storytime with Porthos, both sequel and prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: A few months after the events of Honest Songs, Aramis sends a message to his brother. But when Gustave arrives things are not as he remembered: his nephew is gone, and in his place, a long-lost friend.





	1. Chapter One

Funny thing about long journeys by horseback, Gustave thought, is that a man could almost end up sleeping and waking simultaneously. He knew he was where he was supposed to be. He’d passed through the town about fifteen minutes ago, meaning his brother’s distillery was only another fifteen or so ahead; and yet he had little memory of the ride since leaving the inn that morning. Not that he minded. It was nice, almost prayerful, to slip away from the world a little, to just be a man on a horse, in the countryside.

He’d always loved the quiet. It was one of the many topics on which he and René were inclined to disagree. Night and day, they were; winter and summer. From childhood their differences had only been underscored by the startling similarity of their appearances.

For years their disparities had divided them. As children they had made ill-matched playmates; then, as young men, ill-matched successors of their late father. Not that they’d ever stopped loving one another. But Gustave was glad, and could not deny it, that René had retired from soldiering, even if the circumstances had been somewhat dramatic. René was glad too-- or so it had always seemed.

This last letter had been different, though. Far from the warm contentment that his brother’s missives typically contained, it had been vague, almost gloomy, and-- most startling of all-- had extended an invitation to Gustave alone, and not _Gustave and whoever else so pleases_.

And that was three days ago. He’d’ve set out immediately, had it not been Sunday.

For all their differences, and for the slight indifference they’d borne each other as children, he and René were really quite close now. And René, it would seem, needed him.

The days were getting shorter now, as autumn wore on; the sun had not set but was sinking low. His horse’s shadow was cast out long on the road before them. It seemed a bit of a friendly chase, Gustave though-- stepping into a shadow that was always skating away. They chased it all the way to René’s property.

Porthos and d’Artagnan sat on a bench by the door, waving as Gustave approached. They got to their feet, and took turns embracing him warmly. As three, they took Gustave’s horse to the pen and made sure he had enough water; then they returned to the house.

D’Artagnan led the way. Porthos was hovering near Gustave, quieter than usual, which renewed the sense of disquiet in Gustave’s belly. What was wrong?

They went into the kitchen, where they found René; he looked tired, but otherwise well, and Gustave relaxed fractionally to see that his brother had not been taken ill or injured. But he had little time to contemplate this.

For standing with René, startling and yet instantly familiar was--

“Athos!” Gustave cried, then felt himself grinning. “Athos, my friend-- it’s good to see you!”

“Gustave,” Athos greeted, smiling calmly, and they pulled each other into an eager hug. Gustave squeezed the man to him, ignoring Porthos’ laughter. He hadn’t seen Athos in-- well, it must have been over ten years now-- but he’d always felt a sort of kinship to René’s taciturn friend. Athos had visited, with René and Porthos, a few times during René’s tenure in the musketeers. His name had not been mentioned, though, since René had retired his commission, and Gustave had been forced to assume that, whatever the circumstances of their parting had been, they were not something his brother wanted to discuss. He’d even half-feared the man dead. But here he was, with grey in his hair and beard but otherwise unchanged, keen-eyed and straight-backed as ever.

Gustave pulled away. Porthos was still chucking at them, fondly; d’Artagnan was looking on with a smile.

René, though, had turned aside. And suddenly the dread in Gustave’s belly swelled up, an almost physical pain.

“Where’s Olivier?” he asked, hoping he sounded calm. But nobody answered, and Gustave knew that worry tinged his voice much more the second time around.

“Where’s Olivier?”

Surely if something had _happened_ \-- surely René, even in his grief, would not have been so thoughtless as to not inform him-- or Porthos, at least, would have found it in him to write-- so had Olivier gone off as an apprentice, then? It would be difficult, of course, but wouldn’t that be a cause for celebration as well--?

“Tavo,” René whispered, not looking up, and Porthos came over and draped an arm around Gustave’s shoulder.

“Bit of a long story,” he said, with no sadness but also no humor-- no inflection at all, really. “You feelin’ up to it?”

“Of course,” Gustave said at once, and let himself be led into the sitting room.

*

Gustave sat, for some long seconds, merely breathing as best as he could.

The others were silent, waiting.

“You realize,” he croaked, when he felt able. “You realize how-- unlikely this sounds?”

“We do.” Porthos’ voice was calm as ever.

“Coming from _anyone_ else, I would-- dismiss it out of hand.”

“And coming from us?” d’Artagnan prompted.

Gustave finally managed to raise his eyes from the floor, to look over at Athos, who smiled weakly under the examination.

He’d always realized that Olivier looked nothing like René. But he hadn’t pressed, hadn’t intruded; his brother had seemed content, and whether or not Olivier was bodily his child seemed an unnecessary question.

But to think that he had been _Athos_ all along?

His sunny little Ollie, sensitive, polite, who loved drawing and reading and playing on the swing, who had chased his cousins from the moment he could crawl--

It wasn’t that Athos was an unpleasant person to be. But he was, Gustave knew, born in the same year as Gustave himself. They were forty-seven. _Forty-seven_.

“Did you--” he began, eyes on Athos. Had he been a grown man, just playing along, every time Gustave had held him or rocked him or played with him? It felt like a robbery. “Did you-- know?”

“I didn’t,” Athos answered, quietly. “I did not know until I was eight, and I did not truly process until I was nine. As Olivier, I was truly a child. Truly your nephew. You have my word, Gustave.”

“How--?”

“We really don’t know,” Porthos replied. He was beside Gustave on the bench, and despite it all his presence was a calming one. It always had been.

Athos and d’Artagnan shared the other bench; René sat in a chair by the fire, looking at none of them.

“Please tell me,” Gustave murmured. “Whatever you remember.”

Now that he’d started looking at Athos, he couldn’t look away; like stars appearing as one stared into the night sky, bits and pieces of Olivier were blossoming into view. He and Athos had the same blue-green eyes. The same round face, the same scarred lip.

Was this possible? _How_ was this possible?

“Well,” Porthos began, reaching over to pat Gustave’s knee. “It was a strange day, that’s for sure. It was the day we all-- well. To be honest, ‘m not sure how much your brother’s told you about Rochefort. You’ve heard the name? Well, it was the day we finally killed him. Treville was made minister, Athos was made captain, and Aramis-- well. He resigned his commission. Has he ever mentioned that?”

Gustave shook his head.

“All right. All right, that’s a story for another time, I think, Point is, there we were, an’ everythin’ was changin’. Sort of rockin’ all around us. An’ we all went to, um, to Aramis’ rooms, to help him pack up.”

“I remember that night,” d’Artagnan cut in. “I wasn’t in this story for a lot of it, you know, but I remember-- that. I was folding Aramis’ linens. We were taking them to donate them to the poor. Athos was sweeping the floors, I think. Porthos--”

“I was sittin’ there sulkin’. You can say it.”

“Right. Porthos was sitting there sulking. And then there’s a knock at the door, and it’s a messenger. Bringing a bottle of wine, with no note attached. I thought it was from-- well. I thought it was from Constance. My fiancé, at the time. We were to be married just days from then, and I thought maybe she wanted to cheer us up. I didn’t think too much into it.”

“None of us did,” Porthos replied. “T’be honest, I just wanted t’get drunk.”

“So did I,” Athos admitted.

“Yeah, you did! You grabbed that bottle right outta the man’s hand! Popped the cork, took a swing. Hey, can you imagine if I’d’ve drank first? You’d’ve had to raise a little Isaac.”

“So the wine,” Gustave prompted, hardly caring that he had interrupted. “You drank this wine and then--”

“It was maybe five seconds later,” Porthos affirmed. “I remember, he took a drink, then he stepped forward, to pass it to me-- then you sort of-- wobbled. Dropped the bottle. I remember it smashin’. An’ then there was a baby, proper, tiny baby, lyin’ on the floor, tangled up in your clothes. Screamin’ like nothin’ else. An’ we’re all, you know, we’re fuckin’ stunned. I mean, d’Artagnan an’ me, we’re just sittin’ there starin’. But Aramis, of course, he goes right over, picks him up, starts rockin’ him until he stops cryin’.” Porthos shrugged. “There we were.”

The fire crackled. “That’s some story,” Gustave said, not sure if he wanted to pull away from Porthos or possibly huddle up against him. He did neither.

Porthos chuckled. “That ain’t even the story. That’s just the prologue!”

“Tell it,” a voice said, but Gustave realized that it was not his own. It was Athos’. At his side, d’Artagnan nodded.

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean, tell the rest of it. Please.” Athos was leaning forward a bit, arms crossed and resting on his knees. “As a boy I never thought to ask; as a man I’ve-- hesitated to.”

“How much do you remember?”

“It’s odd. I remember more than a normal child would have, I’m sure. I remember very clearly, from two or three years old. But I don’t remember the beginning. Would you tell us? Please?”

Porthos looked around, and the visage of a storyteller settled over him. “All right,” he consented. “All right.

“So. It’s April, 1632--”

*

Porthos smoothed a wrinkle in the map and fought the urge to put his head in his hands. Never had there been a more convoluted route between two places. Riding full speed the trip to Aramis’ brother’s would take four days; riding with a child would probably be twice that, if they took the same route. They could not, however, take the same route. It passed half-days at a time with no villages in sight, and infants, according to Constance, needed feeding every four hours-- at least. The route they’d devised, therefore, leapfrogged from one village to the next. Riding slow, along this circuitous path-- and accounting for these frequent stops-- Porthos sincerely doubted that they’d make it to Gustave’s in under three weeks. Really, a month seemed more likely.

And when the hell had riding out to the _country_ with a _baby_ become _reality_ , because frankly there were moments in which Porthos still expected to wake up, find it had been a dream--

Though every day, this seemed less likely. And three days had passed now, since Athos had drunk that wine. Three days so busy, they seemed a month.

The morning after Porthos had found himself in Treville’s office, watching his former captain pause in packing up his effects as he took in the twin pieces of ill news.

Athos was gone-- to where, Porthos did not know.

But Porthos himself was leaving as well.

Treville had stared.

“You’d’ve been my next choice for captain, you know,” he’d said, at long last.

“Cheers,” Porthos had whispered, for he honestly might have cried if he’d said anything more meaningful. “Who’ll it be, then? Henri?”

“Your honest thoughts, Porthos,” Treville had requested. “D’Artagnan. Would he be ready?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

“And is he staying? Or is he going with you?”

Porthos pulled a deep breath. “Stayin’.”

And later that day d’Artagnan was captain, and the only one of them still a musketeer. And Porthos and Aramis hugged him and toasted him, and teased him, and made him blush. Later Porthos would know this to be the second-to-last time he’d ever see d’Artagnan as the boy he’d been.

To stay in Paris was something they discussed only briefly; frightened that the unknown poisoner would try to finish Athos off-- or come this time for them all-- it seemed the safest course to flee. Porthos was not used to dealing with safest courses. But he had to admit, watching Aramis soothe the infant in his arms, the world was quite a lot different when there was a child in it you had to care for. Suddenly the safest course seemed the best one.

Where to flee _to_ was another question, and they soon realized that between the two of them they had only one friend-- one brother, in fact-- who could be both so trusted and so prevailed upon.

And so here Porthos was, staring at a map to Aramis’ childhood village. To the distillery that had once been his father’s, was now his brother’s, was the only safe place left in France-- or so it felt.

And they didn’t even have time to send word ahead. How safe could somewhere be if its people didn’t even know to expect them?

Aramis had the baby Athos on his shoulder, rocking him in a funny little dance. Porthos was sitting on his bed, had just finished packing. He didn’t own much, and even then he was leaving things behind, so in the end he had his sword, his pistol, a small sack of clothes, and a much smaller sack of personal trinkets.

Even as a child, a homeless orphan, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so adrift.

He could feel Aramis watching him from across the room, and when he put the map aside, the man came over and settled down next to him. Gently, Aramis pulled Athos from his chest and passed him to Porthos.

And as the baby settled his small weight trustingly in the crook of Porthos’ neck, Porthos calmed, despite himself. Aramis laid a hand on Athos’ little head.

“All things considered,” he murmured, stroking his thumb against the sparse down of baby hair, “I’m somewhat relieved. I was-- I had prepared myself to never see you again, my friend. And here we are, riding across France together.”

“Goin’ off t’be farmers together.”

“Farm _hands_ ,” Aramis corrected. “Or whatever other positions we can find.”

“Your brother--”

“Porthos, you know Gustave. Even if it’s an imposition, he won’t hesitate. Whether or not we stay-- whether or not I can be back there without losing my mind-- that’s a different story.”

“You never talk about it,” Porthos mused, nuzzling Athos’ brow with his chin. “All the years I’ve known you, an’ I have no idea why you left.”

“Too quiet,” Aramis replied, and did not elaborate, and the conversation died off.

“I’ll watch him tonight,” Porthos volunteered, a short while later, as Aramis prepared to leave for his own rooms. It was the last night they’d sleep in their own beds.

“No, I don’t mind. I’ll take him.”

“You had him last night,” Porthos replied, “an’ look, he’s sleepin’. Don’t move him.”

Aramis’ expression could have easily been that of a man told to leave one of his own limbs behind, but eventually he nodded. He kissed Athos’ head, then kissed Porthos’ cheek, then bid them goodnight.

Porthos make a little nest around himself, propping his arms up so that even in his sleep he would hold the baby securely; he needn’t have worried, though, for he did not sleep that night.

In the dark hours he rose, exhausted and anxious. He took Athos to the wetnurse’s apartment-- and what a godsend that woman was, truly-- waited there while the baby ate, then went back to his own quarters. The sun would rise soon. There was no point at all in trying to sleep again, but Porthos climbed back into bed anyway, badly in need of whatever comfort he could get.

Aramis came by a few hours later. He had with him all he was bringing, which amounted to two bags, one of which was quite small; these he placed next to Porthos’ own.

Then Porthos handed him Athos, whom he cuddled close with a sigh of relief.

“Ready?” Porthos prompted.

“Are you with me?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’m ready,” Aramis replied, and kissed the top of Athos’ head.

Loading the horses took minutes only. Porthos was glad for the expediency, for the longer they stayed, the harder it was to resist nostalgic thoughts. This was the last time he’d see his room. The last time he’d break fast in the garrison mess hall.

They hadn’t said goodbye. Cowardly, perhaps, but when it came down to it, much as he enjoyed the company of his fellow musketeers, of Serge and Jacques, there were only two men he really needed to say bid farewell. He’d had that moment with Treville already-- leaving only one.

D’Artagnan met them at the stables, looking handsome and proud in his new captain’s regalia. In his eyes, though, was a hint of fear. He accepted the baby Athos into his arms, cuddled and kissed him a moment or two, then handed him back to Aramis and let Aramis, in turn, cuddle and kiss d'Artagnan. Then Porthos stepped forward, hugged him for a good long time.

“We’ll write as soon as we get there,” Porthos murmured, still holding on tight.

“You’d better,” d’Artagnan growled, and pushed away. “Take care of yourself. And them.”

“As though I don’t take care of myself,” Aramis sniffed, coming over to them. D’Artagnan laughed, wrapped an arm around Aramis’ shoulder, then closed his eyes briefly as Porthos cupped the back of his head. Athos cooed.

 _This is the last moment the four of us’ll be together_ , Porthos thought, then shook his head to banish the thought. There were plenty of things ending today, but surely not _this_?

“Go,” d’Artagnan rasped, pulling back. “Before Porthos starts crying. Write me, damn it. And-- raise him well, yeah?”

Porthos and Aramis nodded solemnly. Then Porthos took Athos while Aramis mounted his horse, passed the baby back, then mounted himself. With no more words spoken, they led the horses from the stables and down the street out of Paris.

Porthos could not count how many times he glanced back-- half a dozen, at least, until his neck began to ache. D’Artagnan stood watching them, stern and stoic. It wasn’t until they were a block away that Porthos saw him wilt a little-- not until they almost lost sight of him that Porthos saw him with knuckles pressed to his lips, beginning to weep.

Later he would know this as the last time he’d ever see d’Artagnan as a boy.

*

“Hey,” Athos murmured, drawing Gustave back to the present. “Are you all right?”

“Mm. Just-- remembering,” d’Artagnan replied. Athos slung an arm around his shoulders, and with his free hand wiped the tear that had snuck down the man’s cheek. D’Artagnan smiled, put his head on Athos’ shoulder. “Christ, I was scared to death. I don’t even think I knew I was scared, at the time. It seemed like I was just sad. But I was-- fucking terrified. I wasn’t on my own, exactly. But just like that, you know-- just like that, I was in charge. Making the decisions. Nobody there to ask what I should do.”

“You were so young,” Porthos sighed. “Captain at twenty-three. He was gettin’ married that week, Gustave. Postponed it, considerin’.”

“And never quite got back ‘round to it,” d’Artagnan added, earning him a kiss on his cheek.

“I wondered, sometimes. If I shoulda lied to the minister,” Porthos mused. “Would’ve been the most selfish thing I could’ve done, but I went back to that talk sometimes. Sometimes I told him you weren’t ready. To be captain, I mean. I don’t know how much my opinion shaped things. But if you hadn’t’ve been made captain, I wondered if maybe you’d’ve come with us then.”

Porthos’ nose wrinkled, and Gustave had the distinct impression that he’d been meaning to say this for a while.

“’m sorry, pup. If I made the wrong call there. That’s me: I’ll tell you the honest truth but I won’t stop t’think about whether or not I should. An’ I really did think you were ready.”

A few more tears had leaked down d’Artagnan’s face during this little speech, and Athos had tipped their heads together in comfort.

“Not sure it’s a good omen that we’re cryin’ already,” Porthos teased, smiling fondly-- and a little nervously too.

“No, I’m fine,” d’Artagnan sniffed. As if to prove it, he straightened, taking his head off Athos’ shoulder though allowing Athos’ arm to remain draped around him. “I just-- I didn’t know that. That you had vouched for me. And I wouldn’t have wanted you to do differently. I-- I don’t think I would’ve come anyway.” He scrubbed the tears from his cheeks. “Keep going, Porthos. I haven’t heard much of this before. I’d like to.”

“Awright,” Porthos consented, then turned. “Aramis? How you doin’ over there?”

Gustave’s stomach tightened; it wasn’t the case that he’d forgotten his brother per se, but he’d been so caught up in the story and René had been so quiet--

“I’m fine,” he man replied, smiling a little. “Go on, _mi amor_. You’re telling it well.”

“Right,” Porthos said, leaning forward a bit. “Well, we were on the road…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my wonderful friends :) I have to be honest with you that updates will be quite slow in coming! I'm working full-time and a night job, and probably (hopefully) starting grad school part-time in the spring... so, yeah. I shall be writing when I can. Hope you enjoy, even if it's a bit slow in coming :)


	2. Chapter Two

It was amazing how quickly the days fell into a rhythm. They woke at dawn, got Athos fed; rode one or two villages over, got Athos fed; rode another village or two, got Athos fed, and ate a bit themselves. Then they rode to the day’s final village. They found another wetnurse, paid her enough to feed Athos then, during the night, and in the morning. Then they found the cheapest accommodations they could, and slept again until dawn.

Some days had minor variations. One day they missed their midday ride to torrential rains; another they simply could not find a wetnurse when they stopped for the night, and were forced to ride on to the next village in the dark.

This was the worst of it, though, for the first week. But sometime during the second, Porthos sat down with the map and a mental tally of how much money they had left, and came to a grim conclusion.

They’d never make it, spending as they were. They’d fall a week short at least.

The first thing to go were the hotels; sleeping out-of-doors had never bothered Porthos before but with an infant in tow it scared him a bit. Still they had little choice. And so they fell into another routine, in which Porthos slept the first four hours and Aramis the second.

No wetnurse would feed Olivier in such conditions, though.

The first and second nights, they simply came back into town halfway through the night, and Olivier was fed in the wetnurse’s own home. The third night without a hotel, though, they were not so fortunate. The village had only one wetnurse, and she made it well known that she was simply too suspicious of them to allow this. Perhaps she had reason. They were, after all, two rather weatherbeaten men, traveling with an infant who looked nothing like either of them, with the audacity to ask to knock on her door in the middle of the night.

“Cow’s milk,” she sniffed at them, when Aramis fell to pleading.

“It isn’t right for children,” Aramis protested, but the woman only shrugged.

“Bit won’t kill him,” she said, and sent them on their way.

And so the small hours of the morning found Porthos, by firelight, cradling Athos upright while Aramis spooned tiny sips of cow’s milk between his crooked lips.

There were no ill effects. The infant fell deeply asleep once he’d had his fill, and Porthos and Aramis smiled at one another in exhausted relief. Aramis curled up besides the fire, then, to take his turn to sleep. Porthos cradled Athos to his chest and waited for dawn.

Emboldened by their success, when there was no wetnurse to be found in the village at midday, they purchased a portion of cow’s milk and set about the same process they had the night before. Athos was somewhat baffled by the spoon, but did not complain. Porthos rubbed a thumb over the infant’s tiny hand as he ate, relaxing somewhat with the thought of this new, reliable back-up plan.

The comfort did not last long. This time, for whatever reason, the cow’s milk did not agree with Athos; within minutes of the meal he was wailing, shortly thereafter vomiting violently.

In his horror Porthos could hardly move. Like a stone he sat, unable to look away from Aramis, who had stripped off his shirt and was holding Athos to his bare chest, uncaring of the mess that now covered them both.

Aramis’ arms were covered in goosebumps. His eyes were dark, dull with terror; his lips moved in silent, fervent prayers.

Eventually the sickness passed. Porthos said nothing as he took Athos from Aramis’ arms, Aramis equally silent as he moved off towards a nearby stream to wash himself. Even when he returned, he seemed barely able to speak.

Porthos had cleaned Athos up, and put away the little they’d unpacked; he watched, rocking the infant in his arms as Aramis extracted a dry shirt from a saddlebag and stuffed his wet one back in its place.

“We needa get movin’.”

“Mm.”

“He needs to eat.”

“I know.”

Aramis seemed a hundred years old, so slowly and laboriously did he mount his horse. Then he reached down for Athos so Porthos could mount as well.

“No worse off than we were,” Porthos noted, as they set off. “No alternatives now; there were no alternatives before.”

“Mm.”

His optimism simply disappeared the moment it got to Aramis, a shout lost in the deepest cavern imaginable. Porthos stopped trying. Soon the first tendrils of despondency began to creep into his own mind as well, and he realized as they rode on that this was simply confirmation of what they’d mostly known all along: they could not afford to run out of money. They simply could not. Wetnurses were expensive, and those who charged by the time it took were especially so, given that Athos’ lip made him slow to feed.

One possible solution was obvious. It terrified Porthos, though, the thought that-- out of practice and much bigger than he once was-- he would be caught, he taken from his friends when they needed him most. And so, in lieu of pickpocketing he’d need to take men’s money the harder way.

Cards had gotten him through hard times before. It was a tough balance to strike, though, spending enough time in the taverns to win money but not enough to set their schedule back. Often Porthos found himself playing for an hour or two of the time he was meant to be sleeping. But willing opponents were much harder to come by so far out of the city, and on some nights Porthos made nothing at all.

One particular night hit him especially hard. He did not sleep, instead staying at the tavern for his allotted four hours, riding a winning streak as long as it would go. He’d acquiring a tidy sum of coins, too-- only to lose every cent in one last round. Pushing the money across the table, he’d nearly wept. As it was he mustered what dignity he could find and shoved his chair back with a grunt, stalking away from the candlelight of the tavern and back towards camp. 

Aramis and Athos were snuggled together near the dying fire, though Aramis’ eyes were open. “Did you win?”

“No,” Porthos huffed, flopping down a short span away.

“Luck of the draw, as you say.”

Porthos only grunted, and began to stoke the fire.

“Are you hungry? There’s an apple left.”

Another grunt.

“Porthos,” Aramis sighed. “Sleep, my friend.”

“‘s your turn.”

“Porthos.” Aramis’ voice was calm, familiar. “Sleep.”

Porthos managed to look up then, to meet Aramis’ eyes in the dim light of the fire. He seemed sincere, truth be told. And as Porthos looked on, he nodded, and smiled in gentle encouragement; unable to fight it, Porthos felt his body crumpling.

“Sleep,” Aramis repeated, so Porthos did.

*

Aramis woke him around dawn, perhaps three hours later; he kissed Olivier’s brow before laying him gently in Porthos’ arms.

“He needs to eat.” Aramis sounded exhausted, as he has every right to. “Take him into the village. I’m going to sleep.”

“Alone?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Yeah? Come sleep in the tavern while Athos eats.”

“People tend to charge you for sleeping places.”

“You won’t be layin’ down. You could put your head on my shoulder.”

Aramis consented, complacent in his fatigue; Porthos gave him the horses to lead, and carried Olivier towards the village. He winced at the sight of the tavern-- the same from the night before. Still he allowed himself only half a second of self-pity before tying up the horses, going inside, and asking for the wetnurse.

She arrived promptly, taking Athos to a backroom. Porthos settled at a table; Aramis dragged a chair just beside him, put his head down on Porthos’ shoulder, and fell promptly asleep.

Porthos sighed, rested his own head on his fist. That there could be any room for boredom in this new life of theirs seemed impossible, and yet here it was. Aramis snuffled softly in his sleep, unexciting company for the moment. The scars and notches on the table before him were all Porthos had to occupy his thoughts.

Then another chair scraped over, and a man settled before him. Porthos tensed automatically, before recognizing the face of the man to whom he’d lost his money the night before.

“Mornin’,” the man greeted. Porthos replied in turn.

“That baby-- too pale to be yours. His, then?” he nodded at Aramis.

“Mm. Yeah.”

“What’s the story there?”

“‘s my friend’s son,” Porthos replied, blaming his boredom for the decision to actually engage in conversation with the man who’d beaten him so soundly. “We’re taking him to live with his uncle.”

The man studied them, face blank. “His mother’s dead?”

“In birthin’ him, yeah.”

“You went along--?”

“You ever tried raisin’ a baby alone?” Porthos forced a smile. “With two of us we’ve still barely got it handled. My friend’s brother, he lives a bit further south of here. Figured it was the best place to go.”

“Why leave?”

Porthos sighed, forced to lie for the first time. It slipped out easily. “Hurt too much. For him, I mean. Really loved Isabelle.”

“What about you?”

“Go wherever, me. Never worked on a farm before. Try somethin’ new.”

“Wetnurses ain’t cheap.”

“No, sir.”

“Not drinkin’ money you were fightin’ for last night, then?”

Porthos shook his head, trying not to look as miserable as he felt.

The man eyed them a little bit longer, then raised his hand to catch the attention of the tavern’s owner. “Meal for these two,” he said, when the owner came over. “On my bill.”

“No, you-- you won that money fair an’ square,” Porthos protested. For all he should have been grateful for any bit of charity, it sat wrong in his belly.

But the man would not be dissuaded. “Took enough off you and those others. Two breakfasts ain’t nothin’.”

And to protest again seemed the opposite of gratitude. “Thank you,” Porthos breathed, holding out a hand. They shook. “It means a lot. Thank you.”

The man waved him away, and stood to leave; he settled his debt and was gone from the tavern before the food arrived. Porthos was glad of it. Gratitude was one thing, but he hardly wanted the man to see the tears he blinked back as the meal was set before him.

Aramis roused at the smell: sausage, ham, cheese, and spiced stewed apples. He frowned up at Porthos, forming a wordless question; it was the sort of indulgent meal they’d long foregone in favor of stews and porridges.

“Patron,” Porthos grunted, eager for Aramis to sit up so he could dig in. “Eat, before the wetnurse’s finished.”

Aramis pulled away, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and snagged a lovely, greasy sausage; Porthos himself took a bite of cheese, then a bite of ham before the cheese was even swallowed.

It was the best food he’d had in a while.

And it was the best food he’d have for a while to come, too.

*

Money remained the biggest problem at hand. Money, and time-- there just wasn’t enough of either.

So the next item sacrificed was buying food for themselves. Instead they shot rabbits, caught fish, picked berries-- which was hardly a luxury, but hardly a novelty either. The problem, again, was the time it took. It was like a countdown reset every time Athos fed-- giving them four or five hours only before he would have to feed again.

And, without breaking that rule, they needed to move as quickly as they could.

It wasn’t as though it was Athos’ fault. He was a baby, after all, not even a month old yet, and rather than spend his life so far wrapped up snug in his mother’s arms he’d spent it bumping along on a horse, never nursing at the same breast twice. Add to that the difficulty of suckling with a crooked lip. It was hardly surprising that every time he ate he seemed to be learning for the first time-- that sometimes he simply could not manage.

It wasn’t his fault.

And yet Porthos, sleeping half of what he was used to and eating perhaps a third of it, could not help but grow frustrated-- if not with Athos then with the universe in general.

One afternoon, the wetnurse explained that Athos had only eaten a little. She was one of the kinder ones they’d come across, and had kept the baby with her for over an hour. Still she said he’d eaten less than half of what he should.

Aramis thanked and paid her, and they left, dejected. As they walked around to where they’d tied their horses, the baby broke into wails of what Porthos recognized as hunger.

“Jesus Christ, Athos,” Porthos grouched, bouncing him lightly.

“It isn’t his fault,” Aramis scolded. “He’s only a baby.”

“Yeah. I realize that much,” Porthos snapped, but couldn’t stop himself from continuing as he rubbed his thumb over Athos’ forehead. “Not for nothin’, kid, but you ain’t exactly holdin’ up your end. I know you’re hungry. Christ, I know you’re _starving_. You’ve gotta eat, all right? Try your best. Promise, Athos?”

The baby had stopped crying, but now lay silently, vacantly. He did little else, when awake.

“Porthos--”

“I know,” Porthos snapped. “No use. I get it.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Aramis replied, voice calm. “I was-- do you think it makes it harder, calling him Athos?”

“What else would you like to call him?” Porthos grouched. “Athos’s his name. It’s still him.”

“It’s still him,” Aramis agreed, “but do you think it might make it easier?”

“Don’t think _anything’s_ gonna make this easy.”

“Well, besides that. _Athos_ is quite clearly not a Christian name. It’s a strange thing to call a baby.”

“So what else d’you wanna call him?”

“His given name is Olivier.”

“He gave up that name for good reason,” Porthos huffed. Which Aramis should have known: all three of them had long abandoned their Christian names for their _noms de guerre_ , not only professionally but in their personal lives as well. Though retired now (something he remembered, with a start, at least once a day), Porthos had no interest whatsoever in being called Isaac. He doubted that Athos would be much keener on returning to the use of Olivier.

“Reasons he doesn’t remember,” Aramis argued. “And reasons that even we know only part of. It isn’t a name for a child.”

“So we’ll choose another.”

“But it’s still _him_ ,” Aramis replied. “He’ll need to be christened soon. As soon as there’s time. He can’t be christened as Athos.”

“Why’s he needa be christened? Weren’t he christened, y’know, the first time ‘round?”

The look of scandal on Aramis’ face was just too much to take, tired as Porthos was; he touched a finger to the baby’s little hand and sighed.

“He gave up his Christian name before ever joining the musketeers,” Aramis said, quietly. “Because Olivier was a child, not a _viscomte_. He wasn’t a child for very long, the first time. But we’re going to give him a childhood now. We’re going to make right on it.”

Porthos could feel the exact moment he was won over: the moment he knew that, despite his foul moods, Aramis still believed they could do this. Still believed they’d make it home, give their friend the life he deserved.

Porthos fought valiantly against his traitorous smile. “’m callin’ him Ollie,” he huffed.

*

By one month in, they both had already sold everything they could afford to lose from their packs-- which wasn’t much. Everything but the weapons, really. Porthos had parted with his jacket, his gloves, his lace-collared shirt. He’d even sold his saddle. Now he rode bareback, to the chagrin of both he and his horse.

Aramis had sold what books he could find buyers for. He’d sold his rosary as well-- the one gifted to him by Queen Anne. Porthos watched him warily all that day and the next, waiting for the inevitable fallout of this. But Aramis just cuddled Olivier close and hummed to him quietly.

But now there was nothing left to sell. There was nothing left to gamble.

And there was a week left-- at _least_.

But perhaps the greatest gut punch was yet to come, for in the afternoon village one day they arrived at the local inn-- only to have the village’s only wetnurse regard Olivier with a sneer.

“I can’t feed him!” she huffed. “Look at his lip!”

Aramis smiled at her, summoning his charm through layers of grime and exhaustion. “It’s more an injury than an illness, mademoiselle.”

“It’s a curse, is what it is.”

“It’s only a harelip. He’s slow to feed, but no harm will come to you.”

“Mm. Where’s his mother, then?”

At his side, Porthos felt Aramis stiffen.

“That’s what I thought. And you’re tellin’ me he’s not cursed?”

“He’s a child,” Aramis pleaded. “He’s my son, and he’s hungry. _Please_.”

The woman frowned a moment longer.

“Triple the price.”

Porthos felt his heart drop into his stomach.

“Triple the price, to cover my risk.”

“There’s no risk--!” Porthos began, but Aramis reached into his pocket. He did not meet Porthos’ eyes as he handed over the money, then Olivier, then shuffled out the door to wait.

The woman glared at Porthos a moment longer, then whisked Olivier away.

Porthos let out a massive sigh. It was her body, in the end, and it felt wrong to demand it of her-- but he could not help but react with anger and disbelief, seeing not only the face of the woman standing before him but the face of every man and woman who’d ever scurried away from an innocent child-- from a hungry orphan--

Aramis was on a bench, just outside. Porthos flopped down next to him.

“This is all we have,” Aramis muttered, handing the purse to Porthos, who peeked inside. “We’re going to have to spend the money for the surgeon.”

Porthos bit back a wince. They’d decided weeks ago to prioritize saving to pay someone to fix Olivier’s lip, once they’d arrived; it was money not to be touched under any circumstances. Or so they’d hoped.

“There’s no point in saving it if he--” Porthos glanced over at Aramis as he avoided saying what they both were actually thinking. There was no point in saving for a surgery Olivier would not be alive to receive.

“We speed up,” Porthos replied. “Cut our sleep back to three hours each. Only stop t’feed him once durin’ the day.”

Aramis glanced at the purse as Porthos handed it back to him, and nodded grimly.

What Porthos did not tell Aramis was the rest of his plan.

Porthos waited for Olivier to finish while Aramis went out into the woods to hunt; when he finally made it back to camp, Aramis had roasted a rabbit.

“All I had time for,” he said, by way of apology. “Should be done, now.”

But Porthos waved away the meat that Aramis tried to hand him. “You have it.”

“I know it’s not much, but it’s all I could find.”

“’snot that,” Porthos replied, grimacing. “My, eh. My stomach’s a bit funny. Don’t think I should.”

Aramis regarded him with sympathy, and the two of them stood motionless for what felt like the first time all day. “It’s nerves,” Aramis decided, at last. “Try not to worry yourself sick, Porthos. We’ll get ourselves there. We will.”

Porthos forced himself to nod.

That night, Aramis took his turn waiting with the wetnurse while Porthos ventured out for food; after wasting two bullets he could no longer justify hunting, and instead filled his hat up with berries. It wasn’t enough for two. He handed it all over to Aramis, and smiled sheepishly when the inevitable question was asked.

“Ate while I was pickin’,” Porthos replied. “Couldn’t resist.”

“Feeling better, then?”

“Mm.”

*

_Ate while I was picking. Ate while you were sleeping._ Each excuse came easier than the last, and Porthos wondered if he was actually being convincing, or if Aramis was just so fucking tired-- they were, they were both just so fucking tired-- that he just couldn’t piece it all together. However he managed, he did, and three days of this passed by.

The fourth morning he awoke before dawn, to Aramis’ hand on his shoulder. “Porthos.”

“Mm?”

“Get up. We can make it today.”

“What?”

“We can make it today, if we leave _now_.”

“D’you think?”

“Stop for _nothing_ but feeding him,” Aramis explained. “Ride hard. No rest; no meals for you and me.”

_Good_ , Porthos almost said; _I was running out of ways to lie to you_.

“We’ll feed Olivier at a village about four hours from here, and then not again until we get there. But we can make it not far after sunset. We can; I know it. But we need to go _now_. Get _up_.”

Porthos got up.

*

The day passed in a blur. Porthos did not know if this was down to hunger or to exhaustion or to the way that something long awaited finally happens, when you were beginning to suspect it wouldn’t.

Darkness had fallen. Porthos had let his head fall, too, only raising his eyes far enough to check that he was still following Aramis.

And then:

“ _Porthos_ ,” Aramis rasped; it sounded like he was going to weep.

Porthos raised his head.

There, with candlelight flickering orange in the windows, was a big, lovely farmhouse, and the end of their road.

Without another word, Aramis urged his weary horse to a gallop. Porthos did the same. As long as their journey had been, he somehow expected the house to recede from them-- to always be the same distance away, like a cursed fairy cottage-- but this did not come true. The house stayed where it was, and a minute later they were at the door.

Porthos tumbled from his horse, staggered to Aramis’ side, and took Olivier into his arms. Aramis leapt down and rushed to the door.

He knocked. For another horrible moment, Porthos’ imagination got the best of him-- he saw Gustave turning them away, closing the door, keeping them away from the light--

But this this not happen either.

The door opened. Gustave’s familiar face peered out into the darkness, bearing a tentative frown; the frown dissolved into shock, then a smile, then worry. “René?”

Aramis’ voice sounded all of ten years old. “Tavo,” he whispered.

Gustave stepped back, gesturing his brother in hurriedly; Porthos followed, watched Gustave smile again when he saw him for the first time.

Then the smile faded once more. Gustave’s eyes were fixed on the bundle in Porthos’ arms-- the infant who’d begun to cry at being unexpectedly jostled.

Gustave wasted no time, but whirled to the table behind him. At it sat a young man whom Porthos recognized as Christophe, Gustave’s oldest son.

“Fetch your Aunt Margot! Then see to their horses!” Gustave ordered. Christophe was off in a blink, disappearing deeper into the house.

“René. Porthos,” Gustave said, turning back to them. “What’s going on? Here, let me hold him for you.”

But Porthos could not hand Olivier over, could not sit, could not do anything but stand there in the warmth of the cozy kitchen and breathe-- and Aramis, it seemed, could do nothing but remain at his side.

Gustave came to them. Though he spoke to his brother in Spanish, soothing him with their mother’s language, he was careful to put a hand on Porthos’ shoulder just as he did on Aramis’. Porthos let his eyes slip shut. Gustave had always reminded him of Athos-- quiet, solemn, and so, so kind-- and he needed Athos so badly right now, needed a big brother so badly, that he found himself leaning into Gustave’s touch unashamedly, though he had met him only twice before, and both of these times years ago.

Then Christophe was back, bringing Margot with her. “René!” she gasped, though her eyes went not to her brother but to Olivier. “He’s hungry.” It was not posed as a question, and without delay she undid the first buttons on her dress and reached out for Olivier.

Porthos handed him to her, watched her hold him to her breast.

Olivier latched on, and began to suckle fiercely.

The wave of relief that washed over Porthos was as cold and as deafening as a blanket of snow, and the next thing he knew he was on all fours, gasping helplessly for air. The world rocked like a boat around him. Only the emptiness of his stomach kept it from upturning then and there on the floor of Gustave’s kitchen.

Then there was a hand on his back, and Aramis’ voice at his ear. “It’s all right, Porthos, I’ve got you. We’re going to sit up, just a little. All right?”

Porthos nodded, and then Aramis was bracing him gently, coaxing him slowly upright, until he was still on his knees but no longer fully prostrate.

Another face, dizzyingly similar to Aramis’ own, appeared before him. “S’rry,” Porthos mumbled, as Gustave blotted a damp cloth against his forehead.

“No need for apologies, my friend,” he soothed. “You’ve had a long journey.”

“Swooned in y’r kitch’n.”

A spark of humor lit Gustave’s dark eyes, but he did not laugh. “One would think you were praying, posed as you are. We’ll leave it at that, mm?”

Aramis tightened his hold as Porthos swayed again without warning. “You look terrible,” he noted, though not ungently. “Are you going to be sick?”

There was still the slightest chance, but Porthos shook his head firmly. “’m all right,” he huffed. “Jus’ needa-- _breathe_ \--”

“Breathing’s always a good idea,” Aramis agreed, and when Porthos laughed a little helplessly at this, he began to rub his back. “We’re all right,” he soothed. “Olivier’s all right. We made it.”

“And, although I hope it goes without saying,” Gustave added, “you’re welcome as long as you need.”

“Thanks, Gustave,” Porthos huffed, looking up to meet the man’s eyes. “Really, thanks.”

“Catch your breath,” Gustave scolded. “Thank me by not fainting again.”

Porthos nodded weakly and let his head sink onto Aramis’ shoulder; Aramis held him close while the world settled back around him. By the time Margot was done feeding Olivier, Aramis had helped him into a chair. And by the time she was done burping Olivier, Porthos felt steady enough to stand.

Aramis kept a hand to his elbow as he did so, silently supportive. He only let go when the time came to accept Olivier into his arms, and when this happened, Gustave came over and took his place.

“You’re both exhausted,” he said. “Come and rest, please. Leave it,” he added, when Porthos glanced over at their meager possessions, in a jumble on the floor. Christophe must have brought them in. “We’ll sort it out in the morning.”

He led them to the guest room. Porthos remembered it from their last visit; this had been at least three years ago now, but still this felt like the closest thing to home he could imagine now.

Gustave leaned against the doorframe once they’d gone inside. “Is there anything I need to know tonight?” he asked, quiet and calm.

Aramis shook his head.

“Do you need anything?”

“No, Tavo,” Aramis whispered. “Thank you.”

“Well, then. The washroom and the well are right where you left them. Margot’s in the girls’ room, when-- oh. What’s his name?”

“Olivier,” Aramis rasped.

“Olivier,” Gustave repeated. “I won’t keep you awake any longer, René. Porthos. Sleep well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh, my friends. Thank you so much for sticking by me. I can't complain about two jobs, as I am lucky to be able to support myself. And I can't complain about starting grad school this month, because I am happy for the opportunity. But man! I feel like I get the chance to write about once a week! I turned down all ("all" = two) of my NYE invites so I could finish this chapter and catch up on laundry! Lmao. But life is life. I say again, thank you so much for sticking by me with my sparse updates. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, and hope also that the next chapter will be posted faster than this one was!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: one scene with an OC who is a racist and superstitious jerk. He's not there long, but just so you're ready for it. Also, discussions of surgery.

Porthos woke to a sluggish haze, and the only thing strong enough to cut through it was the panic that flooded over him the moment he realized that he was alone in bed. As he sprang to his feet, though, he heard happy chatter coming from beyond the door. Heart racing, he sank dizzily back to the bed and let his head fall into his hands. They’d made it. How could he have forgotten? They’d made it-- they were safe now, with a roof over their heads and food available for Olivier, and for them.

At the thought of food, Porthos’ stomach rumbled hideously. It had been more than four days now since he’d eaten, and sometime around yesterday morning the constant hunger had given way to sharp, unpredictable cramping that left him in agony for a minute or two before relenting into a painless torpor.

He stood again, slowly this time so as not to get woozy. Leaving his feet bare he went out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen, where Aramis sat at the table, Olivier against his chest.

“Morning. Thought you might sleep all day.” Porthos returned Aramis’ smile, albeit a bit weakly, and accepted Olivier into his arms. Already the infant looked so much healthier that Porthos wanted to cry. 

“You were like the dead last night. Margot came in to feed him every two hours and you never stirred.” Aramis stood, smiling fondly, as Porthos settled into a chair and cradled Olivier close. “You rested now?”

“Mm. I could sleep a li’l more,” Porthos admitted. Aramis frowned. A moment later there was a cool hand brushing against his forehead, and rather than shy away Porthos sat and let himself be looked over. 

“No fever,” Aramis reported. “Oh, Porthos. You’ve run yourself ragged.”

Porthos shrugged. 

“Olivier needs a nap too. He’s just fed. He’s a hungry boy, eh? Yes, you are! Speaking of,” Aramis continued, in a normal voice, “can I get you breakfast? You can eat, then you can both go sleep together. There’s, eh, eggs and porridge.”

Eggs and porridge sounded like a king’s feast. “Please,” Porthos grunted. 

“Both?”

“Both.”

Aramis set to it. Porthos rocked Olivier gently and told himself to be patient; he’d waited long enough that he could wait a few minutes more.

He could.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, to distract himself.

Aramis quirked a smile. “Working? It’s nearly nine. Gustave said he won’t hear of us helping today, but I think starting tomorrow we’d better insist.”

_Starting tomorrow_ \-- what strange words. For so long now there had been only this, only the end in sight, that Porthos had almost forgotten they were going to keep on living once they’d reached Gustave’s. It was an unexpectedly overwhelming notion. 

But the thought faded from him quickly; he had little room for any awareness but the imminent promise of food. And indeed, half a minute later, there was a bowl of porridge before him with three lovely eggs crowded atop it.

Porthos’ stomach lurched. For a moment he thought, absurdly, that he was too sick to be hungry, but this passed, leaving him ravenous. He balanced Olivier in one arm, and gulped down the hot food so quickly he barely tasted it.

He finished in under two minutes, and heard Aramis laughing. “More?”

Porthos forced himself to shake his head. As wonderful as more food sounded, he didn’t want to overtax his poor, beleaguered stomach.

“Are you sure? You didn’t eat anything yesterday. You must be starving--”

In the end it was Aramis’ own words that brought him to the realization. Porthos watched his eyes widen slowly, and sighed to himself at the censure he was about to endure.

“Porthos,” Aramis said, slowly. “What was the last time you ate?”

“Half a minute ago.”

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t you lie to me.”

Aramis knew already; he could see it on his face. It wasn’t hard to reason, in the end; they’d been friends long enough that Aramis knew a day’s fast left him insatiable, but a longer one left him sick, weak, and stubborn.

“Eh-- the village with the blonde wetnurse? Charlotte? ‘sall one big mush in my head.”

Aramis was silent only long enough to count backwards. “That was five days ago,” he said, flatly. “That was stupid.”

“I was only tryin’ to help.”

A flush of anger bloomed across Aramis’ cheeks. “And how would it have helped me if you died? Where would I, or Olivier, be without you? That was stupid and stubborn and-- oh, _shit_.” Aramis deflated as Olivier began to wail. Feeling fairly tearful himself, Porthos bowed his head and clutched the infant to him, trying to get him to calm.

“You’re bein’ dramatic,” he growled, half drowned out by the noise. “Weren’t gonna die. Know how many times in my life I ain’t eaten for that long?”

A moment later he felt Aramis kneel beside him. Then warm arms wrapped around him, mindful of the child he held, and hugged him close. Olivier stopped crying. After a long moment, Porthos felt himself relax as well, in the comfort of that familiar embrace. “I’m sorry,” Aramis sighed. “I’m sorry, Porthos. How do you feel now? How’s your stomach?”

“Fine,” Porthos mumbled, though in fact the churning of the food inside it was more obvious that usual; he thought absently of how often, as a child, he’d failed to keep down his first meal after days of fasting. He didn’t mention this.

“Get some rest,” Aramis ordered, pulling away. “Eat a peach as soon as you wake up, two of you can manage it. I’m sorry, Porthos. I don’t know how I didn’t notice.”

“Weren’t your fault.”

“I don’t need you to absolve me. But I do need you to know-- I’m going to look after you. Not just Olivier. Both of you. I will.”

“Me too,” Porthos whispered; there was nothing left inside him to say any more but that.

“Rest,” Aramis coaxed. He pushed to his feet and helped Porthos rise as well. “We’re safe here. Safe and sound. I promise, _mi amor_.”

*

The room was silent in the wake of this latest installment. Porthos fidgeted, uncomfortable after his confession; more striking than his self-consciousness, though, were the tears in Athos’ eyes.

With Porthos and René wrapped up in their thoughts, d’Artagnan was the next to notice. He gave a quiet _oh_ then leaned over and wrapped his arms around Athos, who squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face against d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Athos!” Porthos cried, noticing at last. “Oh, _cheri_ , don’t-- oh, that’s not somethin’ to-- _hey_.” He sprang to his feet, went to crouch in front of Athos, and stole him quite shamelessly from d’Artagnan’s arms. “Hey. What is it?”

Athos’ voice was muffled against Porthos’ chest, but his words were clear. “You-- didn’t eat? For five days?”

Porthos’ heart was in his eyes. “Hey, that’s not somethin’ t’cry about, Ath. That was ten years ago! Look at me now, go on, look at my big ol’ belly.”

Athos lifted his head up, peeked, and gave a timid smile. “I’m sorry, Porthos. It’s only that-- I knew. But I didn’t know. What the two of you did for me. What you risked for me. I wasn’t me, then-- at least not as far as you knew me. I was just a baby. You could’ve-- put me in an orphan’s home, you know, gone on with your lives--”

“Would’ve gone really well,” d’Artagnan piped up. “The day the nursemaids found a forty-year-old man in the boys’ ward.” The humor in his voice drowned out the quiet sounds of Porthos whispering to Athos, privately and sternly.

When he was finished, Athos pulled back and dried his face. “I know,” he mumbled. “I know. This just-- isn’t an easy story for me to hear.”

“Needa stop for tonight?”

Athos shook his head.

“Here,” d’Artagnan said, rubbing his leg as he pushed to his feet. He took his cane with him, but did not lean on it for the five or six steps across to the other bench. “Hello, Gustave,” he said, settling down in Porthos’ vacated space.

“Hello, d’Artagnan,” Gustave replied, watching Porthos and Athos tuck up together like two halves of a hinge. By the fire, René had made no moves to abandon his chair.

“’sall right,” Porthos murmured, pressing his lips into the fluff of Athos’ hair. “That’s most of the saddest stuff over with. Really. Should I keep goin’?”

“Yes,” Athos said at once, voice muffled a bit by Porthos’ shoulder. Gustave nodded, and out of the corner of his eye saw d’Artagnan do the same.

“Right,” Porthos said. “So there we were…”

*

In the end Gustave insisted, quietly but firmly, that they rest another few days at least before beginning to work. Porthos was too exhausted to protest. It made little sense, how tired he was; he’d never in his life been able to count on more than six hours of sleep a night, and it had never bothered him before. Now, though, it seemed that a lifetime of fatigue had simply caught up with him. More than just his days of fasting, more than just their weeks of travel, it felt as though thirty-some _years_ of being tired had swamped him all at once. He slept from sunset to well past sunrise, with an hour long nap after lunch to boot.

Aramis joked, more than once, that the only member of the household who slept more than Porthos was Olivier himself.

Which worked perfectly, really. Porthos slept best with Olivier in the crook of his arm; Olivier slept best there, too. The first week at Gustave’s neither of them did much but snuggle together (and eat).

Little by little, though, this seemed to help. Porthos woke up from his afternoon nap, about a week after their arrival, to find Olivier already awake and staring at him. His expression could not be called anything but _impatience_.

When he saw Porthos waking, though, a smile lit his face. He let out a loud, shrill screech and then grinned at Porthos as though waiting for a response.

“Oh,” Porthos said aloud, a little surprised. “Hey there, cheri. You sleep all right?”

Olivier gave another, slightly quieter coo, smiling all the while. Porthos rolled carefully onto his side, facing the baby, and smiled back warmly; this was apparently just what he was supposed to do, for Olivier burbled happily and began to kick his legs in the air. 

“Oh now, you’re wide awake there, arencha? Damn, droolin’ like a fool, too. C’mere,” Porthos chuckled, absently wiping Olivier’s chin. For the first time it hit him how much the baby had grown. In his first month of life he’d gained barely any weight at all. Now he was chubby and rosy and just plain _healthy_.

Porthos scooped him up, lay him flat on his chest. Olivier shrieked and wiggled, then calmed, and began to study Porthos’ beard in utter fascination.

“Mm. Yeah. More interestin’ things than that to see. You wanna go for a walk, maybe? Go out an’ see your uncle’s orchards?”

Olivier responded by reaching out and smacking Porthos’ nose.

Porthos swung his legs off the bed, keeping Olivier pressed to his chest, and took him out to grounds of the distillery. He’d had little time to explore himself, though he remembered enough from earlier visits. The main house formed the center of a wheel of sorts; spread out around it in a small circle were two barns, the stables, the distillery proper, and a vegetable garden. Plum trees and fields of oats formed a larger circle beyond.

Porthos wandered the path down to the plum orchard, narrating the world to Olivier as he went. The baby could hold his head up now, for half a minute at a time. He glanced around often before snuggling back down, and Porthos found himself kissing his downy hair every time he did so.

They found Gustave before they found Aramis, tending a wilting tree. Gustave turned at the sound of footsteps and broke into a warm smile, wiping his hands on his trousers before reaching his arms out for Olivier.

Porthos hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. In the past week Aramis’ brother had been nothing short of a saint, and had fallen in love with Olivier just as surely as Porthos and Aramis themselves had. He handed the baby over.

Olivier cooed as his uncle bounced him gently. “It’s good to see you up, my friend,” Gustave noted, without judgment, glancing up from the baby’s face.

“Good t’be up. God, it’s the first day I don’t feel like the living dead.”

Gustave smiled, and said nothing; Porthos knew enough, though, to see this as a perfectly typical reply. He reached out to scratch Olivier’s head, and slapped Gustave’s shoulder on the way back.

Funny to think that in only a week-- a week in which he’d slept ten to twelve hours a day-- Porthos could have grown to see Gustave as a genuine friend, but he had. He’d always liked him, of course. But now he was more than an ally, more than just a familiar face.

And Gustave himself did not seem to mind.

Privately Porthos thought he could probably use a friend himself, though he did not voice this to anyone. To do so would be to reopen a conversation that everyone seemed to want closed.

Porthos had found out their first day at the distillery, after rousing himself from sleep for the second time in just a few hours. Aramis had joined him in their room, sighed quietly.

“You should know something, Porthos,” he’d said. And Porthos could remember every word of what followed:

“What should I know?”

And then a pause.

“Cecile’s dead.”

Cecile was-- Cecile had been-- Gustave’s wife. For the life of him, Porthos had simply thought he hadn’t seen her; that she’d been in bed for their arrival, and out of the house before Porthos himself had risen.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. Before you ask.”

And Porthos had known his expression was pure horror, but he couldn’t honestly help it; the thought that he might have inquired, innocently, after Cecile’s location-- that he might have brought even an unintentional pain upon their gracious host--

“You should’ve told me sooner,” Porthos had murmured, and Aramis nodded.

“You’re right.”

“Any good reason you didn’t?”

“Good reason? No. Reason? Sure.”

“Yes?”

“When Gustave wrote to tell me, he asked me to come and stay a few months. It caught me by surprise. We’ve never been like that, you know. We’ve never been that close. Not that I didn’t want to-- but it was-- there was just so much going on, in Paris--”

“You told him you couldn’t.”

“I never replied,” Aramis had admitted, and ended the conversation. Porthos had actually been fairly angry with him, after that, though he hadn’t had the energy to reopen the conversation in full.

He had managed to learn that Cecile had died in childbirth. It was a disquieting echo of their own story regarding Olivier’s mother, and Porthos winced to know that the tragedy they’d used as a cover-up was truly being lived right before their eyes. It had been a few months, at least. Porthos also worked out that this was why Margot was still able to nurse when her own child had already weaned; she’d been nursing Toussaint, Gustave’s now five-month-old son.

Porthos wondered if she was tired of playing wetnurse to motherless nephews.

He didn’t ask, of course; he didn’t speak of Cecile to anyone, though he did come to the conclusion that Gustave could use a friend just as much as he could. It made him feel slightly less useless, at any rate.

Presently, Olivier cooed again, and raised his head to look at his uncle, shrieking when Gustave smiled and stuck his tongue out.

“Cover your face with your hands,” Gustave told Porthos, and angled Olivier so that he could see. Porthos did as he was told, hiding behind his fingers. “Now take them away,” Gustave directed-- and Olivier shrieked again, even louder than before.

Grinning, Porthos covered his face once more.

“Where’s Porthos, eh?” Gustave crooned. “Where’s your Porthos? There he is! Toussaint loves that game,” he added, switching back to his typical pitch. “Though it doesn’t confuse him as much as it used to.”

“Confuses the hell outta you, don’t it, Ollie?” Porthos laughed, hiding his face once again. He peeked just enough to see Olivier’s face-- and indeed, he looked thoroughly baffled.

The expression changed to one of pure delight as Porthos reemerged. And Porthos’ heart, as it was beginning to do quite frequently now, melted into a pile of goo.

Gustave knew to hand the baby back without being asked. Porthos smiled sheepishly, wondering just how obvious he’d been but not really worrying about it.

“I think I might escape the sun for a moment,” Gustave admitted. “Harvest will be soon, and then I won’t have time for taking breaks-- but for now I’d like some shade. And I think I’d like to see my own babies a little while.”

Porthos smiled. Gustave’s oldest daughter, Catherine, watched the two youngest children during the day. She seemed wonderful at it, but Porthos understood how Gustave would miss them.

Indeed, the moment they got back to the house, Gustave swooped Toussaint, and his two-year-old sister Francine, both into his arms simultaneously. Catherine giggled, clearly used to this, and lowered her head to receive a kiss on her brow.

Porthos, Gustave, and Catherine sat on the floor and played with the babies a while, Olivier propped in Porthos’ lap, Toussaint and Francine toddling around them, giggling. Catherine produced a small top, and spun it while they watched in fascination.

Then Francine tried to pick up Olivier, who cried, and Toussaint cried because he _wasn’t_ being picked up and decided to throw the top across the room instead, and Gustave sighed. “Time to start in on supper, I think.”

Catherine took Francine outside, while Porthos settled in a chair, Olivier in one arm and Toussaint in the other. Gustave disappeared a moment, coming back with a basketful of turnips.

Aramis ambled in before long, and was sent right back out to fetch water; he did so, grumbling, and soon the turnips were chopped and boiling. Christophe came with a pail of fresh butter, then left again. Catherine and Francine came back in, but went to their bedroom; Porthos, meanwhile, sat and watched the comings and goings of his new home with immeasurable fondness.

Aramis had sat at the table too, and taken Olivier from Porthos. Absently Porthos handed Toussaint to Gustave, and took over the duty of shelling peas.

“I was thinking,” Aramis said, after a short stretch of silence.

“Rare,” Porthos noted, dutifully, and Gustave chuckled.

Aramis smiled but did not tease back. “Before all too much more time passes-- well. We’re safe now, yes? I think our priority now has to be finding a surgeon.”

Porthos nodded and saw Gustave do the same.

“I know of a two surgeons in town, that I can think of; I’ll give you their names.”

“Sooner the better, I guess,” Porthos put in, though at the same time he suddenly felt a little queasy. He started in on the peas again, to focus himself a little. “At this age I’ll bet he won’t remember it, an’ that’s for the best.”

“Exactly,” Aramis agreed.

“When were you thinking?” Gustave prompted.

For just a moment, Aramis seemed to waver; then he forced a smile. “There’s honestly no reason to wait at all, is there?” He turned his head, pressed a kiss to Olivier’s hair. “You’re ready, aren’t you, brave boy? You’ll be brave. You’ll be all right.”

A pea squashed between Porthos’ fingers in a moment of clumsiness; Olivier was ready, was brave. Could the same be said of Porthos himself?

*

The next morning found the three of them back on their two horses, headed away from the safety of the distillery for the first time since they’d arrived.

Gustave had given the names of the two surgeons he knew. One, called Mercier, had seen to Christophe’s leg when he’d broken it; the other, Gilbert, had never operated on anyone in the family but knew Gustave through church, and was by his account a decent man. _Good_ , Porthos thought; they’d have to be to pass _this_ muster.

They came to the offices of the surgeon Mercier, tied up their horses, but then were made to wait a while. They loitered in the sun outside, Olivier taking in the new environment with wide eyes before eventually falling asleep.

At last they were ushered in, and found themselves looking at an older man, with a clean-shaven face and a bored expression.

“Good morning,” Aramis said, with his brightest smile. “My name is René d’Herblay. I believe you are acquainted with my brother, Gustave?”

“The brandy maker? Yes, of course. Good morning.”

They shook hands. Mercier’s eyes fell on Porthos, then, and he gave a somewhat colder smile; well used to it, Porthos simply smiled back.

“My friend, Porthos,” Aramis introduced. “And my son, Olivier.”

“And what brings you to my offices?”

“Olivier has a small wound on his mouth,” Aramis explained, voice steady. “I’m handy with needlework, you know, time in the army, but because of its obvious location I thought I’d consult a professional.”

“You thought well,” Mercier agreed. “What is the nature of the injury? What have you done to staunch the bleeding?”

“No bleeding,” Aramis replied. “It is not precisely an injury. Rather he was born with it.”

The surgeon frowned. “What do you mean?”

Aramis took Olivier from Porthos’ chest, where he’d been snuggled, face hidden from view. “His lip--” Aramis began, but Mercier’s eyes lit with rage.

“ _Witch’s child_ ,” he sneered.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. That child is cursed! There’s no fixing _that_!”

“My son is no witch’s child,” Aramis said. To another man he might have sounded calm, but Porthos heard the fury beneath his words. “He is an infant like any other, born with a _tiny_ deformity of his--”

“Don’t blame me for his curse; blame your whoring wife! It was she who must have consorted with a demon. I thought your family a God-fearing one. Clearly not!”

“I see we were wrong to seek your help,” Aramis snarled. “Porthos?” They made to go, but Mercier stepped closer.

“You-- you go back where you came from, and take your-- your Moor brute and your filthy wife with you! We don’t want any witches here!”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know she’s dead,” Aramis snapped. For one awful moment he really did wear the face of a widower, and Porthos wondered who he was thinking of. But Mercier was not the slightest bit touched by this flash of emotion.

“God’s justice done,” he concluded, waving them away. They stumbled out of the building and into the late morning sunshine, and Porthos’ eyes ached a moment at the brightness. Not that he spared this much thought.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted, and Aramis looked up at him with a hollow expression. Olivier, silent during all the commotion, at last began to wail.

Aramis reached out his arms for the baby, and it felt like parting with his own damn heart as Porthos passed him over. Aramis tucked him close, began to coo to him. Olivier kept right on crying, until Porthos laid a hand on the back of his head; then, with a few shuddering sobs, he began to quiet.

Porthos put his other hand on Aramis’ shoulder. At first he assumed that his friend was the one trembling but, realistically, it could have been Porthos himself-- or perhaps both of them.

“You okay, Ar?”

Aramis grunted through clenching teeth. “If we did not have to make a home of this town,” he hissed, “I’d have half a mind to run that man through. More than half a mind. How-- _dare_ he--? And what he called _you_ \-- Porthos, are _you_ all right?”

“Hey, that I’m used to,” Porthos assured him, rubbing his back. “You know that. Just sorry he called your wife a whoring witch.”

Aramis barked out a laugh. “I forget, I suppose, that there really is a difference between the country and the city.”

“Naw. Plenty in Paris are superstitious fools just the same. Trust me.”

“I know. Oh. I think he wants you, Porthos,” Aramis added, for Olivier had raised his teary face and was waving one chubby arm towards Porthos.

Porthos felt himself blushing a little, as he took his nephew and cuddled him close to his chest.

“Understandable,” Aramis said, all anger gone from his voice. “It’s you I want when I’ve been frightened, too. God help anyone who tries to get to you when Porthos is on guard.”

“Mm. Big brute, I am.”

“Don’t,” Aramis sighed. “It’s men like Mercier who give all God’s followers a bad name. Let’s press on. Hope Gilbert really is a man of God. If you’re ready?”

“Ready,” Porthos replied, absently kissing the crown of Olivier’s head. He wasn’t, of course, but he’d have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Still alive. Plugging along through work, grad school, etc. So sorry to be updating so sparsely, but I assure you that even when I don't have time to write, this lovely fandom-- the boys, and you all-- are not far from my mind. This week I was lucky enough to get two snow days, and so had time for this chapter! Hopefully the next one will not be so long in coming. Thanks for continuing to read, despite the infrequent updates!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: surgical procedure described, though not in extreme detail; wine given to infant

This part of the story had been told before, Gustave could see. A myriad of emotions played across the faces of the men in the room, but missing from them was surprise. D’Artagnan and Porthos looked furious. Aramis looked furious, too-- and guilty, and despairing-- nothing short of miserable, really. Athos’ face was carefully without expression.

For his own part Gustave felt a bit sick, remembering.

“The second doctor,” d’Artagnan prompted, after a moment. “Gilbert. He was of the same opinion.”

“Less of a cock about it,” Porthos sighed. “But yeah. Same opinion.”

“But you found someone. Obviously.”

Porthos nodded. “Not that day, though. I remember thinkin’, it was funny: as soldiers we’d marched sun up to sun down with no rest but talkin’ to those two doctors just wore us clean to the bone. We went home. I fell asleep. The next day, I remember, we even talked about-- y’know. Not havin’ it sewn at all. But Ollie still couldn’t suckle well. Margot was more patient than the wetnurses, but he still wasn’t growin’ like he shoulda been.”

“Aramis almost did it himself.”

“Yeah. We sorta made a deal with ourselves: there was one more surgeon in town t’ask, an’ if he said no, then Aramis was gonna do it.”

“But he said yes.”

“Mm. God bless ‘im. He was a good man. Said he’d come to the house to do it, even, so maybe Ollie’d be a little less scared.”

“So _he’d_ be a little less scared?” D’Artagnan’s smile was near a grin, but still there was understanding in his eyes.

“Yeah, so _he’d_ be. Listen: us grown-ups, there was nothin’ we coulda done to be less scared, even by a bit.”

*

Despite all they’d gone through to come to this point, the afternoon of the surgery came less than a week after Aramis had first broached the subject. The third and final surgeon they’d asked had agreed, readily. His name was Chastain, and he was a younger man than the other two; Porthos tried not to worry about that, and the lack of relative experience it implied. He was, after all, worlds kinder. That mattered most of all-- it had to.

Presently they were in the kitchen, awaiting Chastain’s arrival; the rest of the household was going about their business as usual, and Aramis was scrubbing dishes, seemingly to distract himself. Porthos sat at the table, rocking Olivier, who’d fallen asleep to the rhythm.

Eventually Aramis returned to Porthos’ side; he fell heavily into a chair and slouched over the table, though not before glancing once more out the window. Swallowing back his own doubt, Porthos smiled.

“He’ll be all right, Ar,” he soothed. “You said it yourself. Clearly he survived the first time ‘round.”

“As the son of a _comte_ , who could no doubt afford the finest physicians in France.”

Porthos draped his free arm around Aramis’ shoulders and drew him close, surprised but pleased when the man succumbed instantly and tucked himself against Porthos’ side.

Olivier awoke to the movement. He blinked up at them, then looked straight into Porthos’ eyes and let out a loud trill, in greeting. Aramis snorted quietly.

It was then there was a knock on the door, and Olivier chirped in response; Aramis sighed, pulling away from Porthos’ arm, and went to answer. For his part, Porthos brought Olivier’s face to his, and peppered kisses over his cheeks and brow.

He could hear Aramis and Chastain exchanging quiet pleasantries, then a moment later Chastain stepped before him, greeting him as well.

“Morning,” Porthos replied, hoping his voice sounded steady. Chastain smiled, and tapped Olivier gently on the nose.

“Good morning, Olivier,” he said, in just the same voice he’d greeted Aramis and Porthos, and Porthos warmed to him even more.

They wasted no time; the table had already been cleared, and water set to boil. (That Chastain had insisted he bathe his instruments in this reminded Porthos of the late Doctor Lemay, and he took this to be a good sign. Lemay had looked after their captain well, not to mention that he’d been seen as qualified to tend the king himself.)

Olivier watched, curious, as Chastain prepared all he’d need for the procedure. The surgeon spoke calmly to them all, about nothing in particular, as he did so, and his gentle voice and mannerisms must have impressed the infant, for he willingly let Porthos pass him to Chastain a moment later.

Porthos, of course, was far less willing, but said nothing.

Chastain had filled a small pipette with wine and now, cradling Olivier in one arm, he guided the end of it into Olivier’s mouth. Olivier fussed, but Porthos saw that most of the wine went down.

Chastain bounced Olivier while the wine took effect, then lay him carefully on the table; Olivier wiggled, unsure of strange circumstances, and Chastain smiled patiently.

“Perhaps one of you could stand at the other side of the table and still his head?”

Porthos went, and leaned over the table to do as he was told. Aramis, meanwhile, stayed to the surgeon’s left, reaching out to stroke Olivier’s hand. Olivier calmed quickly, sleepy with the wine.

Porthos thumbed the infant’s soft, pale hair, trying to exude that same calm himself; it grew more difficult as Chastain selected a small scalpel, and put his left hand on Olivier’s face, parting his lips. He raised the blade, positioning it carefully against one side of the split.

Porthos shut his eyes, hating himself for doing so but unable to stop himself; it wasn’t even fear, so much as too many things flooding in one him at once, choking him, drowning him. It was so unfair. Yes, he could choose to be grateful that the split went through Olivier’s lip only, and not into his mouth; he could choose to be grateful that they’d managed to find a surgeon who did not dismiss the baby as cursed.

Instead he found himself raging at the superstition in the first place. Raging that this-- that _anything_ \-- should be happening to bring Olivier hardship or pain.

And not only this, but out of nowhere: he found himself missing Athos so badly he could weep. Who were they, looking after an infant? Who were they thinking they could do a better job, give him a happier life-- and why the fuck were they even in such a situation to begin with? Why wasn’t Athos there with them? Why the fuck had any of this happened, why had life taken them in such a direction that he now found himself leaning over the table in Aramis’ brother’s kitchen, holding still the infant version of one of his dearest friends, so that a surgeon younger than Porthos himself was could take a scalpel to the same lip that had already been cut and resewn over thirty years ago--

And then Olivier began to cry. And nothing mattered to Porthos but soothing his nephew, scooping him up from the table and rocking him in his arms as the baby whimpered in fear and confusion.

Aramis came to his side, stroked Olivier’s hair. Chastain filled the pipette with more wine, administered it patiently, and let Olivier stay in Porthos’ arms until he seemed calm enough to try once more. Porthos laid him back on the table, more focused than he’d been the first time.

But once again, the moment Chastain raised his scalpel, Olivier began to wail, terrified. They tried a third pipette of wine, but afterwards Olivier would not consent to leave Porthos’ arms without crying.

“If I could make a suggestion,” Chastain began, quietly.

And so the fourth try saw Porthos himself sitting on the table, feet steadied against a small stool, Olivier in his lap, cradled in the dip between his thighs. It might have been amusing, were it not so upsetting. But when Chastain raised his scalpel once more, Olivier began to cry, quietly, and Porthos’ heart _broke_. It must have been that he was in too much of a stupor to fuss properly. But how it seemed at first glance was an odd version of stoicism: that Olivier, resigned to the pain, could stay still but could not hold back his tears.

“He’s a brave young man,” Chastain soothed. “But I can’t begin until he’s absolutely calm. If he moves at all, the scar could be much worse than if not.”

Porthos nodded, understanding. With both hands he captured the infant’s head, holding it so that he could not move his neck, stroking his cheeks so that he might still his mouth as well.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart,” Porthos crooned. “Lovely little Ollie, you’ve gotta stop cryin’ for me. I know you’re scared, _cheri_ , but you’ve gotta stop cryin’, all right? You’ve gotta stop cryin’, just for now. Just for now.”

Aramis, who’d had both hands on Olivier’s legs, now moved one to lay on Porthos’ elbow. And finally, finally, Olivier went still.

The surgery itself was not long. Chastain cut away the skin that lines both sides of the split, then fitted the sides together and sewed them with miniscule stitches. When it was finished, he applied a poultice to staunch the bleeding, of which there had been more than Porthos would have expected.

And then it was over. Porthos pulled Olivier out of his lap, into his arms, while Aramis paid the surgeon, thanked him repeatedly, and helped him to gather his things. Then he took him to the door, and the three of them were alone.

Aramis drew a chair beside Porthos’ legs and slumped into it; he cupped a hand over Olivier’s feet and stared at his son as though afraid he’d lose sign of him forever if he didn’t. Porthos found himself staring as well.

Olivier was sleeping now, but there was blood all down his chest, smeared across his pale skin by the fabric of his swaddling. “Can you get a wet cloth?” Porthos asked Aramis, loathe to let the blood dry.

But Aramis did not respond. Instead there was a noise, a little choke, and Porthos glanced up to find Aramis’ fingers to his lips, the apple of his throat bobbing as he swallowed convulsively.

“You gonna get sick?” Porthos asked, keeping his voice calm. Aramis shook his head. “Yeah, you are. Go on, go throw up, you’ll feel better.”

Another short pause, then Aramis nodded; he pushed to his feet and staggered out the kitchen door. There came the sound of vomiting. Porthos tried not to listen as Aramis-- loudly, thoroughly-- emptied his stomach, though it was difficult not to.

The sounds stopped eventually, but the door did not open. Instead Porthos heard two voices speaking quiet Spanish, and when Aramis finally did come back inside, Gustave was trailing him patiently. He set about heating some wine, as Aramis crouched next to Olivier.

“He’s fine,” Porthos told Aramis, firmly. “Can you go clean your teeth, please? That breath could wake the dead.”

Aramis huffed a laugh, and stroked Olivier’s cheek before pushing to his feet and going off down the hallway.

Gustave continued to bustle around the kitchen in silence. Soon, though, he joined Porthos at the table with two cups of spiced wine-- which Porthos would have known from the heavenly aroma, even if he hadn’t known Gustave’s habit of making it when someone was upset. There were always a few bottles infusing in the corner. Whenever necessary, he simply heated some up, filling the air with the scent plums and oranges and cloves. He pushed one cup towards Porthos, then opened his arms for Olivier.

Porthos handed Olivier to Gustave, who had wet a cloth as well and now used it to wipe the blood from Olivier’s chin, neck, and chest. Olivier merely snuffled, and slept on. Gustave finished, and laid the infant against his chest; then he just sat without speaking, and Porthos could feel the tranquility of his presence soaking through the air like heat.

The silence was lovely, and Porthos didn’t know he was about to break it until he already had.

“He bled a lot,” he heard himself say, and Gustave regarded him over Olivier’s little head.

“The stitches are well done. He’ll be healed soon.”

“Kinda surprised I weren’t the one t’panic.”

“You and René sort of seem to take turns.”

Porthos chuckled, and Gustave smiled in reply; they fell back into silence, and sat companionably until Aramis joined them a few minutes later. He checked again on Olivier, then slumped into a chair and seized his wine.

“How you feelin’?” Porthos prompted.

Aramis shrugged.

“Awright. Try this, then: how’s your stomach feelin’?”

“Better.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Aramis smiled tiredly. “There’s nothing to talk about, Porthos. I’m fine. It isn’t as though blood bothers me. I just-- I saw him bleeding--” here he paused a moment. “I saw him bleeding and on my life, it was as though I were hurt myself. I just couldn’t bear it. And all that blood--”

He broke off. Gustave looked up from where he was kissing Olivier’s thin hair. “There’s nothing quite like seeing your child hurt,” he said, quietly. “That’s not going to change at all; you’ll just get be more prepared for it.”

“Will I?” Aramis snapped.

“You’re worried you won’t?”

There was no reply, and when he felt they’d waited long enough, Porthos nudged Aramis’ foot with his own under the table. “Can you tell us? Please?”

Aramis looked up, meeting Porthos’ eyes for the first time since the surgery; he looked awful, Porthos noted, sick and shaken.

“Perhaps I never was cut out for this,” he whispered. “Being a father.”

“That’s sayin’ a big thing from a little thing, Aramis.”

“No, it isn’t. It isn’t just that I got sick today. It’s-- it’s--”

“What?”

“It’s as though the ground and the heavens have-- wrenched themselves apart,” Aramis confessed. “There’s so much space between them now. And everything good is so much better, and everything bad is so much worse. Is that how it always feels?”

“Yes,” Gustave replied.

“I’m not sure I have-- have a heart big enough to hold it all.”

Gustave stood then, went to his brother’s side, and placed Olivier in his arms; Aramis accepted him with a timorous smile. “You don’t hold it all,” Gustave told him. “You can’t possibly. You will laugh and love and cry ten times as much as you ever have before.”

“’sides, I’m less worried about what your heart can hold than what your stomach can,” Porthos added.

Aramis gave a short burst of laughter, so sharp and brittle that Porthos finally realized how close the man was to tears.

Gustave seemed to realize too. “Finish your wine,” he admonished, at precisely the same time that Porthos coaxed, “go lie down a li’l while.”

Aramis looked between the two of them, then laughed again, a little stronger. He shifted Olivier to one arm, gulped the rest of his wine, stood, and left. Porthos sat with Gustave a little longer, but soon he found himself nodding off as well, and let himself be waved out of the kitchen, to go and lay with the others.

Aramis did not stir when the door opened. Nor did he stir when Porthos stood over them, to gaze down on his little family. Aramis was on his side, one arm crooked around Olivier. They were both breathing evenly, deeply; Olivier’s hair fluttered slightly in the breeze of Aramis’ breath. Porthos climbed into bed, tucking an arm around the man’s waist just as Aramis had an arm around Olivier.

When he woke sometime later, Olivier was awake too, though silent and still. Porthos scooped him up in his arms and laid him against his chest, where the baby snuggled contentedly. His grogginess bothered Porthos, but he was hardly about to voice this. Olivier was a tiny creature, after all, and so had probably drunk an entire bottle of wine from his little body’s perspective; he was allowed to be a bit bleary. His lip had stopped bleeding, and the stitches were barely visible.

All in all Porthos should have felt fine, now, but as he lay there with Olivier’s skin flush against his own, a troubling thought rose to the front of his mind. He waited a bit longer for Aramis to rouse and, when he didn’t, nudged him awake himself.

“Aramis,” he called, and Aramis raised his head. “Eh-- feel Ollie’s forehead for me, yeah?”

And though he’d convinced himself that Aramis would disagree with his assessment, would wave away his worries, he knew from Aramis’ expression that this wouldn’t be the case.

In the growing darkness, their eyes locked.

“A fever shows a body fighting,” Aramis said, firmly, though there was a brittleness to his voice. “That’s a healthy thing, Porthos. A healthy body does fight--”

*

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan sputtered, interrupting the story. Porthos blinked.

“What?”

“I thought you said the worst was over!” d’Artagnan snapped, indignation and perhaps a bit of terror on his face.

“Mm?”

“You said, _that’s most of the saddest stuff over with_. This isn’t sad?”

Gustave couldn’t help but smile. D’Artagnan was obviously rattled but it was hard to take him very seriously when he’d, either knowingly or unknowingly, affected Porthos’ Parisian accent to throw his words back at him.

“Not to spoil the ending for you,” Athos drawled, “but I did survive.” D’Artagnan glared at him, and Gustave, sensing the need for it, wrapped an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. D’Artagnan leaned in a bit.

“Sorry, pup,” Porthos allowed, with a little smile. “I forget there’s some of you hearin’ this for the first time. You all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. I just-- no. No, I’m really all right, Porthos. Please don’t leave it there.”

“That was pretty much the end of that part.” Porthos’ smile widened. “If you’d’a let me go on ten seconds more, I’d’ve been done. Fever went all night, but broke in the mornin’. Aramis cut the stitches out a few weeks later, an’ that was that.”

“Oh.” D’Artagnan blinked. “So that’s--?”

“End of the very beginnin’, I guess,” Porthos replied, with a shrug. “But there’s more to tell, if you want to hear it.”

They all did, of course; so Porthos went on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap. Hi, everyone! I'm still alive! I've missed you all, genuinely, and missed the boys as well! I won't bore you with the details but I had a CRAZY 2017. Quit my second job so I've "only" been teaching full time and in grad school full time, but I've had just a lot going on on the side as well, some good, some bad. I'm doing mostly pretty well (I say this because I know some of you darlings will ask, for which I love you.) But I feel like I haven't had a moment to breathe since just about July. As fate would have it, though, we have a snow day today! So I decided, screw it, I'm doing nothing but writing today. So here we are!
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay and hope that those of you still reading enjoy. It might be taking a while but I am DETERMINED to finish this story!


	5. Chapter Five

It was harvest before long, and Porthos found himself infinitely grateful. They’d been there over a month and Gustave, though he’d never actively stop them from doing something, had so far refused to assign them any real responsibilities. At first, Porthos could admit, he’d needed the break. But now that his usual energies had returned to him, he was beginning to feel a bit freeloading, not to mention useless. But there was no room for uselessness now that the crops were ripe.

This was the first real length of time that Porthos had spent outside of the city for anything other than military campaigns, and he was surprised-- and sort of charmed-- to learn that a farm could seem just as bustling as any Paris street, given the right circumstances. The whole place, it seemed, burst open.

The oats were ready first, and so Porthos was taught how to use a sickle, and soon thereafter how to thresh and winnow. Nearly every member of the household was doing the same. Catherine, as before, stayed back to watch the babies, only now she had three charges: Olivier in addition to her own brother and sister. Porthos was oddly at ease with this. Typically he found he missed Olivier the moment the infant was taken from his sight, but Olivier seemed already to love his cousins, and the work actually proved fun enough to be distracting.

Aramis, of course, rolled his eyes when Porthos first told him this. But Porthos had always found methodical tasks soothing, and this was even moreso than marching or cleaning a gun. Because this was peaceful-- no danger associated with it, no anger.

Not that it was calm! In fact it was pretty damn chaotic, especially once the plums were ready to harvest as well: everyone picking or jamming or still seeing to the oats, separating the seed from the straw or else cutting the last of it--

And then it was time to pick the vegetables from the gardens-- onions and aubergines and peas and summer squash-- not to mention the berries that grew ‘round the outskirts, in wild bushes-- and then it was time to sow the autumn crops-- carrots and pumpkins and turnips and beats--

So much food, so much family, Porthos had never known.

And _then_ it was time to start in on the wine-making, and Gustave all but disappeared into his distillery. Aramis, with surprisingly little whining, went with him. For weeks, though the summer sun rose early and set late, the brothers left and returned to the main house in the dark.

And it was good for them. In the end their reconciliation seemed, to outside eyes, a simple thing.

To be fair, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps there were conversations Porthos didn’t witness. Perhaps there was anger and arguments and forgiveness and tears. If there was, though, it was entirely off-stage. Starting with the wine, and from then on, Aramis and Gustave were the brothers they’d barely been of late (or ever). Even as the harvest ended, they were often found together. They laughed together, prayed together, went for long walks in the evening. On Sundays they dressed in somber clothes and spoke in hushes tones for the whole of the day, but never seemed unhappy so much as at peace.

And though Porthos tried to give them their space, they wouldn’t have it. He found himself included in their activities far more often than not, and even when the wine aged and the time came to turn it into brandy, he passed hours upon hours with them, in the distillery, not understanding much of what was going on but happy to keep company--

*

“Where was Olivier?”

Gustave chuckled as Porthos scowled at d’Artagnan’s interruption. “’course, you just wanna hear about the cute li’l baby. _My_ experiences, what’re _they_ worth?”

D’Artagnan schooled his own laughter. “I’m sorry, Porthos. That’s not what I meant.”

“Mm-hm. ‘course not.”

“But where _was_ Olivier?”

“When we were workin’? With Cath, like I said. Anytime one of us had a free arm, though, we’d take him along with us. ‘til he started crawlin’, of course, then he couldn’t be in the distillery.”

“So what did he do with his days?”

Now Porthos was laughing too, and even René was cracking a smile. “Wet himself?” Porthos offered. “Drool?”

“As terribly interesting a man as I am,” Athos put in, “there is not all too much to be said about babies, of any description.”

But d’Artagnan, Gustave could tell, was taking none of this as an answer.

“Fine,” Porthos laughed. “Lemme think. Oh, I’ve got one. Wanna guess what Ollie’s first word was?”

“Oh-- eh. _Hello_?”

“No.”

“His name?”

“D’Artagnan, have you ever met a baby?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be telling me to guess if it were _papa_ or _uncle_!” d’Artagnan protested. “So I’m trying to be imaginative!”

“Come on. It’s obvious.”

D’Artagnan laughed again. “It wasn’t _plum_ , was it?”

“It was!”

“All right, tell me. Now you’ve got to tell me about that one.”

“That I can do.”

*

The frenzy of harvest was mostly over, and the relative chill of autumn was setting in. Aramis now forced Olivier into a tiny sweater before allowing him outside. The kitchen, not to mention the cellar, was full of vegetables, fruits, and oats, and Gustave (who had become their authority on all things baby-related) suggested it was time Olivier try real food, and slowly be weaned from milk.

He suggested this with a sly smile, and Porthos knew why. He’d watched Gustave go through the same process with his Toussaint over the last few months and was sure his friend was good and ready to let somebody else be the epicenter of the kitchen’s worst messes.

Although, Olivier was a calm baby, almost preternaturally so. (Something to do with his unique situation, most likely, and so Porthos tried not to dwell on it, but it was true.) So maybe he’d cause slightly less of a disaster than his cousin--?

Or not.

Definitely not.

Mashed carrots came first, and Olivier liked them. He liked them so much he flung them in Porthos’ face and lathered them like soap into his own hair.

Mashed peas came second, and Olivier hated them. He hated them so much he flung them in Aramis’ face and rubbed them like ointment all over his own hands.

Boiled oats were acceptable. Squash was better than oats, but still not as good as carrots.

And then one morning Aramis announced that he didn’t feel like boiling anything, and mashed a plum instead. He handed the plate and a spoon to Porthos. Then he set about making some bread dough while Porthos tested on Olivier this latest food.

At the first taste, Olivier’s eyes went so wide they seemed to fill his face. For a fraction of a second, Porthos could not read anything but sheer surprise in his expression, and wasn’t sure if he was pleased or about to spit the plum mash back at Porthos (as he’d done the first time with oats).

But then Olivier broke out grinning. He kicked his legs, waved his arms, and Porthos found himself laughing so hard he couldn’t keep the spoon steady.

“Hey, Ar,” he called, between giggles. “Your son likes plums.”

“Your nephew likes plums?” Aramis repeated, coming to stand over Porthos’ shoulder. “Look at that. He does, doesn’t he?” He wiped the flour from his hands, picked up a whole plum, and showed it to Olivier. “Plum. _Plum_ , Olivier. Can you say _plum_?” He’d been trying this with all sorts of objects in recent weeks.

But instead of speaking Olivier just knocked the fruit aside, in a frenzy for more of the sweet mash on Porthos’ spoon.

“Plum,” Aramis repeated, retrieving it from the floor. Porthos could only laugh and shake his head; Olivier couldn’t care less.

Or so it seemed.

The next morning, they mashed him some squash.

But Olivier fussed and whined when offered it. Aramis tried a few times, but each time Olivier pursed his little lips and grunted repeatedly. When the spoon was removed, he opened his mouth and babbled effusively. He seemed, for all the world, not unhappy as much as _frustrated_ \-- which only made sense, Porthos allowed; he’d be frustrated too if he couldn’t express himself in such a way that others could understand.

But then it happened.

“Pum,” Olivier said.

Porthos’ head shot up. Olivier slapped in disgust at the squash yet again being offered to him, but Aramis was too busy looking at Porthos to notice when it was knocked away.

“Did he--?”

“I think--”

“He’s young!”

“Would it really surprise you?”

“Get a plum,” Aramis huffed, high-colored with excitement, and Porthos scrambled to fetch a plum and mash it up on a saucer. Aramis retrieved the spoon from his lap, absently licked the squash from it himself, then scooped a little of the plum mash Porthos offered him. He held it to Olivier’s lips, where it disappeared immediately. Olivier crowed.

“Plum?” Aramis prompted. “Plum, Olivier?”

“Pum pum pum,” Olivier replied, happily, waving his chubby hands for more. Aramis fed him another bite. The baby continued to celebrate-- for there was really no other word for it-- radiating the sort of simple happiness only attainable by the very young.

(And if his happiness made Porthos so happy he shed a tear, well. Nobody could fault him for that.)

For a while, _plum_ was the only real word in Olivier’s vocabulary; it was accompanied by a lot of the usual babbling and gibbering, but nothing else coherent. That it meant what it seemed to was undeniable, though. When presented with any other food, Olivier would eat a few bites, then sulk and whimper, “pum?” Then, when given his beloved mash he would dig his fingers into it and shout “pum pum pum!”

One morning, though, he greeted Porthos with a grin and a quiet but definitive “un-ca”. Crying as hard as he was afterwards (far more than just one tear this time), Porthos could not even bring himself to tease Aramis that _uncle_ had come before _papa_ \-- and it hardly mattered, anyway, for _papa_ came less than a day later. After _papa_ came _Goo_ for Gustave. Then came _yes_ and _no_ and _kee-kee_ for kitty, as more than a few cats lived on the property; and then there was really no stopping the boy.

Porthos himself was delighted to simply watch it happen. Aramis, however, seemed determined that his son should grow up to be as gifted with words as he himself was, and so he wasted no moment trying to teach more of them to the boy. He was mostly successful, with some exceptions.

*

“I can’t wait to know what words you tried to teach him,” d’Artagnan laughed. “Tell me it wasn’t, you know. _Fuck_ or the like. Not that young.”

“Only when Aramis wasn’t around,” Porthos admitted, casting his eyes sideways. “I can think of one you’ll like, though--”

*

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis said, carefully, tapping a finger to the parchment. “Dar-tan-yan.”

“Taya!” Olivier crowed, grabbing at it. “Tayatayataya!”

“I think he thinks that means _letter_ ,” Porthos advised, rescuing the parchment from Olivier’s fist. Aramis nodded, looking a bit sheepish. He took Olivier and held him in his lap while Porthos smoothed out the pages, smiling as he did so.

Letters from d’Artagnan were hardly rare, but always a treat-- by now, at any rate. Truthfully, Porthos had cried himself sick the first time they’d gotten one, the sight of the familiar handwriting unleashing a torrent of guilt and homesickness in the form of streaming tears that threatened to blur the ink beyond coherency. (Aramis had given him Olivier to hold. He’d cradled him to his chest and sobbed into his nephew’s sweet-smelling hair as Aramis rubbed his back and worked along to script their reply: little more than _here, alive but exhausted; better letter to follow._ )

But that had been ages ago. Now letters poured in from d’Artagnan, with such frequency that Porthos couldn’t help but feel their delivery fees must have been more than half of his pocket money. Despite the slight guilt, though, each one warmed his heart. Quite inevitably they were pages long, and often seemed to have been written in spare bits of time across multiple days. Just as often as not they also arrived out of order. Altogether it gave the impression that d’Artagnan spent at least a little time every day thinking of them, and Porthos ensured that he wrote back just as frequently, so d’Artagnan knew he was in their thoughts as well.

God, was he. Months and months later, going on a year now, and he still was.

“Let’s write back today,” Aramis said, interrupting Porthos’ thoughts.

Porthos nodded. He was holding Olivier now, and bounced him as Aramis collected quill, ink, and parchment.

“Dear-- d’Artagnan,” Aramis narrated, beginning to write.

“We fucking miss you,” Porthos supplied.

“We-- fuck-- ing-- miss-- you.” Aramis smiled without looking up as he carefully enunciated each syllable in turn. “Tell us-- you’re well-- my friend. I pray-- for you-- each night.”

“I do, you know,” he added, resting his hand on the desk. “I worry about him, Porthos.”

Porthos still had d’Artagnan’s letter in his hand, and he thumbed it now as though he could feel d’Artagnan’s skin there instead of just parchment “He sounds all right, honestly,” Porthos replied, slowly. “He’s not a boy anymore.”

But Aramis did not look convinced. Porthos handed him Olivier and took over writing, taking down Aramis’ dictation for a page or so before switching to some of his own thoughts.

“That isn’t how you spell _Bordeaux_ ,” Aramis noted, as he read over Porthos’ shoulder.

Porthos snorted. “You know I couldn’t write my own name ‘til I was ten or eleven?” he said, raising his head to pull a face at Aramis-- but Aramis averted this expertly, by placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Don’t kiss my nose. Let me see Ollie. Oh, come here, _cheri_ , you want your uncle, doncha? ‘cause your papa makes fun of people, hm? So mean.”

Olivier gave a happy trill as Porthos held him at arm’s length, making him fly through the air.

“He just ate; he’ll spit up,” Aramis scolded, taking the letter from Porthos. “Shall I continue?”

“Mm. An’ watch you don’t spell nothin’ wrong, ‘cause I won’t keep quiet.” Porthos lowered Olivier back down to his lap, supporting him with one hand and giving him the other hand to play with. A second later he was gnawing on the pointer finger.

“Me writing-- again,” Aramis dictated, “as-- Olivier-- has mistaken-- Porthos’ hand-- for a breast.”

“God, I hope you don’t do this to your auntie,” Porthos huffed. “Lots to be said for gentility.”

Aramis laughed and went on for a bit longer, before finally coming to the end with a flourish of the quill. “Anything to add before I sign it?”

“No. Best from me, best from the _cheri_.” And he glanced down to see that Olivier had fallen asleep with his finger still in his mouth.

“God, I love you, silly little wiggler,” Porthos breathed, and closed his eyes a moment.

*

At Gustave’s side there came a quiet, shaky sigh. He glanced over, worried that d’Artagnan might be crying again and feeling an obligation to check, given that they were now on the same bench together.

He wasn’t. He was, however, staring at Porthos with something almost like piety in his eyes, with wonder and devotion to levels typically reserved for saints.

Porthos noticed too, and pulled a face. “Quit it, pup. You know damn well how much we missed you.”

“Right. Right,” d’Artagnan said again, straightening and schooling his face. “No, it isn’t-- it isn’t that I didn’t know that. I just-- you’ll laugh.”

“Probably.”

“No, you really will.”

“‘m sure I will. Now spit it out.”

“It means a lot to know that you thought of me in your happy moments,” d’Artagnan said, and blushed. “Like, you didn’t just think of me and miss me and be sad. You had-- happy moments, and you thought of me then, too.”

“We were always thinkin’ of you. I mean that, all right?”

D’Artagnan nodded, almost shyly.

“That’s that, then. Anyway. There’s lots more to say, you know, but nothin’ sticks out farther than the rest. Quiet life, honestly. Only thing that, eh, that spoiled any of it was the headaches. An’ I don’t-- I don’t really wanna talk about those.”

A sort of hush fell over the room for a moment, but it lifted quickly.

“’part from that, it was-- god, it was a dream. Got up with the sun. Worked hard enough we were tired ‘nough to sleep, but never too tired to sit ‘round in the evenings with a nice glass of brandy.” Porthos smiled. And even though he’d been telling tales all night, this was the first time that his eyes glassed over, that he truly looked lost in the past.

“I’d have you in my lap, Ath,” he murmured. “Or Francy, or Toussaint. Three of us’d hold the three of you, an’ we’d just-- sit an’ be together, you know? God, we needed that. All three of us, we needed that so much. An’ everything just felt-- safe, an’ simple. It-- I--” he laughed as he searched for the words. “It wasn’t somethin’ I ever expected, I can tell you that much. It was just so-- so good. I didn’t know how much I’d been hurtin’ ‘til I wasn’t.”

He stopped himself, looked to the man beside him, whose eyes were narrowed, brow creased.

“No, ‘m not-- I’m fine, Athos, stop lookin’ at me like that. Thing you gotta know about me, thing you should know by now, _cheri_ : I’m grateful. For all of it. For the first change. For the second. For every moment between ‘em an’ every moment since.”

“I know,” Athos murmured. “But don’t think I can’t tell you’re holding back from saying-- something. Whatever it is, you can say it. It won’t hurt me.”

“It’s not even anythin’ like that.” Porthos took a shaky breath, blew it out as a giant puff of air. “I jus’ never-- I never-- honestly, I never talked about how scared I was. I mean, a little, I did. To that one, mostly.” Gustave smiled as Porthos gestured in his direction. “But I was terrified, Ath. Less so, as time went on, but still. Thing is, I never-- I never had a father. Yeah? Made sense, I’d never get to be one. I never thought I’d have kids. In my heart of hearts. I never thought I’d be a father. Let alone a good one. An’ then I got t’be one. An’ I’m just _so damn grateful_ for that. I’d’ve-- I’d’ve gone to my grave not knowing-- I was pretty good at it?”

“Porthos, you were wonderful at it,” Athos whispered, thumbing a tear from Porthos’ cheek. “You were an amazing father. Truly.”

“Never saw that one comin’,” Porthos choked out, starting to weep in earnest now. “Me, with a family. With a proper family. I mean, we were, but-- we weren’t, y’know? And now we are-- we’re a proper fuckin’ family-- no, ‘m fine, pup, I d-don’ even know w-why ’m cryin’--”

For d’Artagnan had gone to him, wrapped him in a massive hug; Porthos leaned into it, heaving out things that were not laughs or sobs but noises of pure emotion. Athos stroked Porthos’ hair, impossible fondness on his face.

Gustave met his brother’s eyes, and at once they moved to rise. But Porthos put his head up then, and gave a bellow of laughter. “Don’t you dare make me wine!” he yelped. “I’m all right. I’m not-- it’s just a lot, yeah? Ar, Tavo, sit down, both of you.” He swiped at his cheeks, sniffing hugely. “Everyone’s been takin’ turns tonight. It was mine. Really. Really! I didn’t get that out right. I-- I am not upset. I’m not. I’ve loved every minute, before, during, after. I guess maybe I’ve just never said? How much it all meant to me? Never put much stock in gettin’ older. Meant to give my life for the crown by thirty. And I’m just-- so glad I didn’t. Fuckin’-- fuck it, I worked meself up. Gimme a minute, would you?”

And he pulled away from Athos’ arms, still waving them all away, and took himself into the kitchen. D’Artagnan waited only a count of ten or so before following.

Whether or not Porthos knew it, he was the sort of man whose emotions decided the feeling of the room at large. A happy Porthos made others happy. A calm Porthos could soothe the roughest sea-- something Gustave knew from personal experience.

A sad Porthos broke your heart. His grief, even though more a memory than reality now, had filled the room with a melancholy as inescapable as smoke, and Gustave felt it descending upon him just as inescapably.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Lord, he hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Excuse me,” Gustave said, as calmly as he could manage. He headed towards the washroom, thinking this a logical enough excuse, but he didn’t stop there, going through the next door out to the grounds of the distillery. Autumn air did little to cool the burning in his eyes. Not ready to stop moving yet, he went to the top of the hill, where stood the tree with the little rope swing, overlooking the sea of naked plum trees.

The moon was bright, almost full. He wrapped his fingers around the rough fibers of the swing and leaned into it, swaying forward as the ropes and tree branch took a little of his weight. And it struck him now, as it hadn’t before:

Ollie was _gone_.

Oh, Athos.

Oh, _René_ \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems this will be the story I only work on during snow days! Oh well, two months between updates beats a whole year. This is also a good example of why I don't like to post a story before I'm finished with it entirely, though, because I fear this has turned a bit rambly. Oh well, pressing on, one more chapter of this and then I think I'll turn my teacher!boys AU into a trilogy :) Oh, also, if anyone is a fan of Hawaii Five-0, I've been playing around with some one-shots over there. Nothing serious, though. I doubt another fandom could ever be what this one has been to me <3


	6. Chapter Six

Gustave leaned heavily on the swing, the maelstrom of thoughts in his head almost too much to stay standing. He tried to breathe steadily. The true shock had lasted moments only before draining away, leaving a strange sort of grief, but the grief itself didn’t seem to be ebbing. Rather it grew, as he thought of his brother. He didn’t think René had ever loved anything as much as he’d loved being a father—and that was saying something, for René had plenty of passions in life—and now? For fatherhood to be taken from him, and in such a way?

And Athos? Offered some blessed second chance at the innocence of boyhood, only to lose it for the second time?

Gustave lowered himself onto the swing. Between the memories and emotions, and maybe the change in the temperature as well, he was feeling a bit weak, a bit sick, and his legs were starting to tremble. Hoping to calm himself, he closed his eyes. Ran his fingers down the roughness of the ropes and thought of another swing, nearly identical to this one, that hung from a massive oak tree back at his own distillery.

Ollie had been somewhat obsessed with that swing. He’d watched in awe as his older cousins played on it, and sulked terribly when reminded he was too little to do as they did. René, before long, took to sitting on the swing with Ollie in his lap. But this still wasn’t good enough, and so Gustave had constructed, as a moving-away present, a swing to be hung here, on his brother’s property, when Ollie was deemed old enough.

René had mentioned it in so many of his letters! How high Olivier liked to swing, how much it secretly terrified René, but he tried not to show it—and how Ollie knew very well who had given him the swing, without ever being reminded—how he mentioned Gustave every other time he played on it—

“Shall I give you a push?”

The same bit of Ollie that Gustave could see on Athos’ face, he could hear in his voice. There was a softness to it, an earnestness that the drawl couldn’t hide.

Through his tears Gustave smiled, and shook his head.

“You have questions.”

“Actually, I— understand more than I thought I would.”

“We did discuss how best to explain it. But in the end, we couldn’t think of any way any better than the others.” With a quiet huff, Athos sat on the grass and Gustave’s feet. “But I will answer any questions, my friend. Please know that you can ask.”

Gustave drew his sleeve over his face. “Foremost,” he said, quietly, “Athos. Are you all right?”

In the moonlight he saw Athos’ smile; it wasn’t very big, but there was compassion, and a real humor to it. “I’m fine, Gustave.”

“How’s René?”

The smile dimmed, but only slightly. “Grieving. Healing.”

Strange, Gustave thought, how those two words were just different descriptions of the very same process.

“Typical Gustave,” Athos teased. “I’m not offended, you know; this would stir anyone’s curiosity. You mean to say you really don’t have any other questions?”

“Fine,” Gustave murmured. “One. What—what the _hell_?”

Athos grinned. “That is, I believe, only the second time I’ve ever heard such vulgarity from you, Tavo.”

Now it was Gustave’s turn to smile. “You don’t mean—”

“I never did tell anyone, you know. You were _mortified_.”

“Bad enough I use such words at all—let alone in front of a child—!”

“And over the _smallest_ injury—I’d always thought you to be much more stoic!”

“My Lord,” Gustave breathed, letting himself slouch forwards. “It really is you, isn’t it? You—both of you? Not both, but one?”

Warm fingers settled over Gustave’s, where his hand rested tiredly on his knee.

“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Athos said. “And if you ask me to explain I’ll never be able to. But—you were my uncle. And before that you were my friend. Whatever we are now, I’d like to think we’re still family.”

Gustave wasn’t sure who moved first. But a moment later Athos was kneeling before him and they were embracing, tightly, Gustave laughing a little at his own clumsiness as he tipped off the swing. They stayed this way a while. Then Gustave steadied himself on the swing again as Athos sat back in the grass.

For another long moment they sat in silent company. Athos stared upwards—at the moon, it seemed—and Gustave swayed in tiny, soothing motions.

“How’s Porthos?” he said, at last.

Athos smiled. “He’s fine. D’Artagnan’s with him.”

“I didn’t mean to take you away from him.”

“D’Artagnan’s the best at it anyway,” Athos replied, shrugging one shoulder. “At calming people down, I mean.”

“In some ways I worried about him more than René,” Gustave mused. “In the early days, I mean. He’s—leaving a bit out. He was fairly well lost, for a while there.”

“That’s Porthos. His heart could be shattered and he wouldn’t tell you. Then he’ll turn around and cry because you write him a poem about a bird.”

Gustave snorted a bit, stopped swinging. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Well, I’m referring to a specific incident. In which I wrote him a poem about a bird, and he cried.”

“Because it was—good?”

“No.” Athos grinned. “It most certainly was not good. He said it was just because I wrote it for him.”

“Well. That’s just what it is to be a father.” Gustave pushed to his feet, then helped Athos stand too. “And once you are, well.”

“You always are,” Athos finished. “I’m seeing that. Shall we?”

Gustave nodded.

They kept close as they walked back down the hill, into the house through the kitchen. Gustave felt himself color faintly as they reentered the living room, but Athos’ hand at his back was a steadying thing.

René was by the fire, where they had left him. D’Artagnan was sitting with Porthos now, rubbing idly at his back; Porthos leaned toward him, looking perfectly content despite some leftover sniffling. Until he saw Gustave, and his brow creased with worry.

“Stop,” Gustave said, pointing right at him. “I’m fine.”

Porthos stabbed a finger back at him. “I’m fine too.”

They laughed.

“You know what the problem is,” Porthos continued, letting his hand drop not to his side but atop d’Artagnan’s head, mussing his hair. “We missed supper. We missed supper, an’ now it’s too late for a civilized meal, an’ we might as well just have some brandy an’ call it a night.”

“I’m too tired for brandy,” d’Artagnan whined. “Half a cup and I’d be out in ten minutes, I can feel it.”

Everyone smiled, as Gustave and Athos settled on the vacant bench.

“We _were_ windin’ down, pup,” Porthos replied, nudging him gently. “If you’re that tired. Not much left to say.”

D’Artagnan pouted. “One more. I want one more, from all of you.”

“One more—?”

“One more story. Please. Let’s give ourselves something to sleep to.”

“I’ll go.”

Gustave didn’t quite startle, but was caught off guard by the quiet voice coming from the man beside him.

“Haven’t had much of a role in things tonight,” Athos added, wryly. For all the irony of the statement, it was true, and Gustave smiled again.

All eyes in the room settled on Athos. He glanced around before speaking, but when he began a moment later, he mostly addressed his own knees. Not out of sadness, though. Out of a sort of bashfulness that reminded Gustave of his nephew so much he felt the lump returning to his throat. He forced himself to breathe through it. There was so much emotion in the room, but so much of it was happiness—why focus on the rest?

“One more story,” Athos was saying, quietly. “I can think of one, when I was maybe two and a half. We’d just left Gustave’s for the distillery here.

“It was one of our first nights sleeping here. Perhaps it was the first, I can’t recall. I wasn’t used to sleeping alone. I never had, really. And here I had my own bedroom. Not only that, but I was under the distinct impression that there were _worm monsters_ under my bed.” He glanced, smirking, at Gustave. “We have Francine to thank for that.”

Ah, yes, that sounded like Francine.

“I remember trying to sleep,” Athos went on, “but I was convinced I’d be eaten up the moment I closed my eyes. So not too long after I’d been put to bed, I went to sleep in Porthos’ room. But he wasn’t there.”

Gustave glanced up at Porthos, who shrugged, a bit shyly.

“At that point I was—really scared. Scared as hell, honestly. I went down to Aramis’ room, to tell him there were monsters and that Porthos was missing—and anyway, of course, there was Porthos, sleeping in Aramis’ bed.”

A few in the small audience laughed at this. Gustave was surprised to see that his brother was one of them.

“Naturally I hopped right in. The first night with our own bedrooms and we slept piled together as ever. I don’t—I don’t think I processed then, of course, but I’ve realized now just what it meant.” Athos’ eyes flicked upwards, scanned them all. “Everybody needs somebody sometimes.”

“Sometimes more than sometimes,” Porthos noted, with a wry little smile. Beside him, d’Artagnan smiled too, and put his head down on Porthos’ shoulder.

The fire was burning down a bit, now. The room was washed in orange light, filled with the sound of soft crackling; for a few minutes, that was all. Then:

“Do you remember my treasure box?”

If Gustave had been surprised to hear Athos offering up a story, he was shocked to hear it from himself. And to realize which story was spilling forth.

“Treasure box?” Porthos echoed.

“I had—I have—a small wooden box,” Gustave replied. Like Athos he did not meeting anyone’s eyes, though it was not quite out of shyness. “For my—my dearest keepsakes. It’s private, really. But I showed you.” Now he glanced briefly at Athos. “You loved studying things. You had patience for it that most children don’t. And I suppose—I needed to talk to someone. Who could listen, but maybe not listen too much. One evening I took my box out and I showed everything inside to you.

“One of the things I kept inside was Cecile’s ring. It had been a while since I’d taken it out, and—it was hard for me. It was a difficult moment.” He huffed a little, remembering the mess he’d been. “I don’t know if I scared you. Or if perhaps you really were that smart, that young. But in either case, you scampered off. You tracked down my brother and Porthos. And all three of you— you stayed with me until the moment passed. Until I felt myself again.”

Which had, if memory served, taken quite a while.

“It’s not that I was without family,” Gustave went on, idly twisting his hands. “But with my sisters, and my children, I felt a sort of obligation that I didn’t feel with any of you. To be—to be well.

“I—I am very glad. That you came home when you did. Not just for yourselves, but—for me as well.”

Athos hugged them then, of course, and Gustave chuckled quietly and hugged back; he felt calmer now than he had all evening, with the story finally out in the open. With himself, finally having acknowledged his own little part in it.

“Whenever they talk about you, it’s just about how you saved them.” D’Artagnan’s voice was soft and fond. “And you did, of course; I know that more now than I did before. But they don’t—they don’t always realize their own role, the three of them. Patrons of the lost, really.”

Gustave pulled back from Athos, but stayed close. “I think we have this in common, my friend.”

“Yes.”

“Add a story of your own, then.”

D’Artagnan laughed and tossed his head. “Oh, Lord. Everyone’s had to hear enough from me, honestly.”

“You came here from the war.”

“I came here from a hospital,” d’Artagnan corrected, and Porthos put a hand on his arm. “Before the hospital, it was the war.” He shrugged. “It’s a terribly simple story, in the end. I was broken: my body, my soul. There was no—no good at all left in the world, as far as I was concerned.”

For the first time Gustave really studied d’Artagnan. He was younger than the rest of them, mid-thirties, Gustave supposed, but he realized now that in fact he’d seemed older when they’d first met two years ago. He’d been thinner, more tired—and this after months at the distillery already. Now he looked lively and sharp, more like the man from the old Paris stories Gustave had heard so many of.

“I never meant to stay. I meant to take a leave for a month or two. But once I was here I—just sort of closed my eyes and fell into them. And I honestly don’t think I’d be alive today if I hadn’t. I’d’ve gone back to the war, and I’d’ve died there, and—Jesus! I didn’t, Porthos, I’m right fucking here.” For Porthos was holding him ever more possessively by the second.

“Oh, I’ve got a story,” d’Artagnan went on. “Just a short one, if we’d like it. It was the first harvest I was here.”

Gustave laughed, knowing full well the chaos that entailed.

“Anyway, most of it had been picked, so Aramis was off distilling, and those two were off jamming.” He waved, vaguely. “Anyway, they’ve got a tradition, I guess. The first batch of jam, they eat some while it’s still warm. I was down in the orchards and you”—he nodded to Athos—“came running down so fast I thought something was on fire. Frantic, honestly. Me, I’m still a bundle of nerves at that point, and already I was shaking, sweating, thinking something was really wrong. And you stopped right in front of me and just said— _it’s time for plum jam and cookies now, gran frair_. I think my heart missed a beat.”

“My apologies,” Athos said, softly.

“No need. It was one of a thousand moments like those; I just kept realizing, again and again, that I was safe here. That disaster wasn’t waiting around every corner. It was hard, to understand that.” He smiled. “ _God_ , that jam was good. And now I’m hungry.”

“Got no cookies, at the moment,” Porthos said.

“Mm, I love jam with cookies, but to be honest I prefer it with cake.”

“I know what you mean,” René murmured, breaking his silence for the first time since Gustave’s return.

“Mm, it’s spongier, right? More nooks and crannies for the jam to soak into—”

René smirked, shaking his head. “Not about the cake, pup.”

“Right. No sweet tooth, you.”

“I know what you mean that—that it was hard to understand. That you were safe here. That it really was going to be all right.”

The very room seemed to take a breath then, and not exhale, looking at René, backlit by the dancing glow of the fire. Gustave leaned forward without quite meaning to.

“I think so often of what could have happened differently,” René breathed. “If you’d never drunk that wine, Athos—we wouldn’t be here.”

Porthos frowned. “How do you mean?”

“We wouldn’t. We were friends, I know, but we wouldn’t’ve—stuck together the way we did. I’d’ve gone off to the monastery. The three of you would’ve gone to war, would’ve gone wherever it had taken you. I wouldn’t have you in my lives anymore.” He met Gustave’s eyes, then, for the first time in a while. “I wouldn’t have you either, Tavo. I wouldn’t have gotten you back.

“It has been hard, these months. It has been. And I’ve been scared, I think—that finally the best years were ending. But nothing’s ending. Every child grows up. We’re still here. Look at us! We’re safe, we’re together. Who knows where any of us would have been otherwise! Who knows if we’d’ve had families or not. The whole thing—all of it—Athos, it was nothing short of a miracle. God really does know. Don’t you think?”

And then René was crying. Gustave had honestly been waiting for this moment all evening, but as he rose to go and settle next to his brother he realized all was not quite as it seemed. Tears were coming, yes. But René was smiling, almost laughing, happier than he’d been all evening, and when Gustave knelt down beside him René threw his arms around his neck with so much force that he flung himself from his chair. Gustave pulled him close as he hiccupped noisily.

The others joined them, forming a cluster, and René flailed a bit as he tried to grab all four of them in at once. Gustave pulled away, let somebody else take his position right before René.

Athos did. “Aramis,” he whispered, sobbing nearly as hard as René himself. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you all,” he added, and turned to address the rest of them; he didn’t get very far, though, for René threw himself bodily forward and grabbed him up. Athos hugged back just as tightly.

Porthos moved closer then, and brought a gentle hand up to thumb the tears from René’s cheeks. René shuddered, raised his head.

“Porthos,” he said. “ _Mi amor_. I needed to hear that. So badly. _Thank you_.”

Rather than speak Porthos just reached out again, and René let go of Athos just enough to take Porthos’ hand and squeeze it. Athos watched this fondly, tears still streaming down his face. For a beat, it was the three of them together. Then:

“You!” René barked, grabbing d’Artagnan up, last but hardly least. “I love you. You know that, yes?”

“Yes, Aramis,” d’Artagnan laughed.

“You didn’t believe me, when I said you were a missing piece. You couldn’t see how anything could be missing. Well! Nothing’s missing now.”

“ _Aramis_ ,” d’Artagnan whined; in the low light Gustave could see his eyes as well fill with tears, two big fat ones escaping.

René only laughed again, and buried his face in d’Artagnan’s shoulder. Porthos went and knelt behind René, wrapping his arms around his waist, while Athos and Gustave took up the remaining positions at his sides.

And for a while—a good long while—they stayed there, just like that.

*

At long last there came the scrape of cane on wood. Gustave raised his head to find the room more or less in darkness, the fire smoldering, the faces of his brother and his friends dim, obscured. But d’Artagnan’s voice was as clear and warm as ever.

“Tea?” he offered. “Or wine?”

“Tea,” Athos said at once, while Gustave and René replied, in unison, “wine.”

Porthos, laughing, got to his feet. He helped d’Artagnan up and, when d’Artagnan seemed to waver a little, kept ahold of his arm and went with him into the kitchen.

Gustave found René, kissed him on the brow; then he got to his own feet and went to revive the fire. Thinking it would be time for bed soon, he didn’t add much to it. But he got it burning again, until they could see one another; until he could see René and Athos, wrapped in each other’s arms, still on the floor.

It seemed a bit of privacy was in order, so Gustave removed himself quietly.

In the kitchen, d’Artagnan was sitting on the worktable, grinding with a mortar and pestle in his hands; Porthos was prodding the cooking fire. They were talking, quietly, exhaustion in their voices but affection as well.

“Tav,” Porthos said, interrupting himself. “Good, we could use more hands.”

Between the three of them they got the water and the wine both heating up, the spices crushed, the tea herbs bundled neatly. Porthos set five cups on the table. Then he went to stand at d’Artagnan’s side, and hugged him loosely as they waited for the fire to do its work.

And Gustave found he missed his brother, quite suddenly and quite badly. Saying nothing, he went back into the main room, now filled once more with warm, low light.

René and Athos had moved to a bench. Once more René was weeping, and quite hard too, face buried in his hands, Athos’ arm tucked ‘round his shoulders. Gustave went to kneel beside them. “Are we still all right?” he murmured, reaching up to ruffle his brother’s silver hair. Beneath his hand René nodded, furiously.

“Yes. Yes. I— yes.”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Athos confessed, though he didn’t seem terribly repentant. “He was calming down.”

“And then— he said—” but René couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.

“It’s all right, _querido_ ,” Gustave hummed. “Words just for the two of you, I think.”

“No, it’s— it just took me by surprise— Ath?”

Athos smiled at him, little tears still leaking down his own face; he seemed very happy and very, very tired. “I said,” he clarified. “Well, for context, Gustave, I still remember my original childhood. Full memories of both, which is a strange thing. But I said that when I think of my parents, instinctively—” he turned back to René and smiled. “I think of Aramis. And of Porthos. They hold that place in my heart.”

“Isn’t that nice?” René blubbered. He was quite a mess again, and Gustave wrapped both arms around him and pulled him close, feeling his body shake with laughter and tears as he worked through the impossible wonder of it all.

He held him a minute or two, before a voice interrupted them.

“Tav!” Porthos shouted, from the other room. “We still needed you. Only got— well, only got three hands between us.”

Gustave squeezed once before letting go, meeting his brother’s eyes. René nodded at him, knowingly. D’Artagnan came in then, smirking, coming back in with only his tea; Gustave went back to the kitchen and retrieved his wine, and his brother’s. Porthos carried his wine and Athos’ tea.

“Christ,” Porthos sighed, seeing René for the first time in a short while. “Somebody fall in a vat or rouge?”

Gustave couldn’t help but laugh. René’s face was, in point of fact, a deep and fervent red; Gustave was torn between laughing at him for it or giving him a hanky to wipe his runny nose. He did both.

“Left enough water for another cup,” Porthos noted, casually, settling besides d’Artagnan on the other bench. “Case anybody needs any peppermint before bed.”

“Everybody’s got to stop being nice to him or he’ll never stop,” d’Artagnan advised, as fresh tears welled up in René’s eyes and were hastily wiped away.

“He’s right,” René sniffled. “I’m— oh. I’m just having trouble calm-calming down. I’m all right. Really. Just—”

“It’s a lot,” Athos supplied.

“It’s a lot. But I’m all right.”

“You’re dead tired, is what you are,” Porthos corrected, and René smiled and nodded. He sipped a bit at his wine, before setting the cup carefully on the floor and twisting to tuck up against Athos’ side.

“That’s him done,” Porthos chuckled, at the same time that d’Artagnan advised, “I think you’re sleeping in the living room tonight, Ath.” Athos hummed in acknowledgement, and kissed the top of René’s head.

Gustave, still standing, stretched. D’Artagnan slid over a bit, offering space between him and Porthos, but Gustave just settled in René’s vacated fireside chair instead. “Honestly, I’m going to finish my wine and go to bed, anyway.”

“That’s my plan as well,” d’Artagnan agreed, and Porthos nodded.

For a while they sat in easy silence, broken by the crackle of the fire and occasional sound of a cup being picked up, or put down. René was dozing, head on Athos’ shoulder. D’Artagnan, leaning more and more against Porthos as time passed, seemed close behind him.

But he stirred and lifted his head when Porthos yawned, breaking the silence. “Didn’t even ask, Tav,” he chuckled. “How long’re you stayin’? Week, at least, I hope.”

“Christophe can look after the wine at this stage,” Gustave replied. “So I’d planned on two or three, if you’d have me.”

Porthos smiled at the teasing. “Did he hear?” he asked Athos, gesturing towards René; Athos shook his head fondly.

“Aramis,” he murmured, prodding the man gently. “Aramis. We’re not actually sleeping here, come on.” René snuffled, but nodded to show his awareness. “Gustave’s planning to stay a few weeks; he just said.”

René made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a hum, and raised his head. “As he should.”

Gustave and Porthos laughed; d’Artagnan and Athos smiled. “What I mean to say,” Athos continued, “is that the five of us have plenty of time to spend together. Why don’t you go to bed now?”

He smiled patiently when René hesitated. “My room, then. Come on.”

“Or mine,” Porthos added, his voice equally gentle. “No shame in wantin’ t’stay close tonight.”

“He’s already coming with me,” Athos scolded, as he and René got to their feet.

Porthos pulled a face of mock offense. “Have it your way, then,” he pouted, and Athos rolled his eyes at him as he laid a hand on René’s back.

“Goodnight, everyone,” he said.

They chorused their goodnights back at him, then he and René went into the hallway and disappeared from view.

D’Artagnan finished the rest of his tea, then excused himself to the washroom. When he came back a few minutes later, he took up his cane and smiled at Porthos and Gustave sleepily. “I’m following suit. Are you two all right?”

“We’re fine.”

“Let’s have a cake tomorrow, mm?”

“Meanin’, _Porthos, bake a cake tomorrow_.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

“Awright. Go to bed, pup.”

“Night, Porthos. Night, Gustave.” And d’Artagnan too left the room.

Left alone, Porthos and Gustave rose; Gustave lit them a candle while Porthos put out the fire. Then he came to Gustave’s side. The candle’s flame flickered in his dark eyes, and he smelled ever-so-slightly of smoke.

“Honestly,” he intoned, cupping a hand under Gustave’s elbow. “ _Honestly_ , how are you doin’?”

“Honestly, I think part of me is still—making sense of it,” Gustave admitted. “But the rest of me is all right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. How are you? Because, I can imagine— I can imagine you’ve been taking care of my brother more than of yourself. That’s generally your way.”

Porthos smiled. “Can’t deny that outright, but I’ve looked after meself as well. An’ havin’ d’Artagnan here, that’s been, y’know. Somebody else to lean on.”

“Good.”

“But I’m all right. I am. Funny old life, y’know. But it’s been good more than bad, an’ I don’t see that changin’.” His smile flickered then, but didn’t go out. “Tav— listen, I’m so glad you came for him. For Aramis. He’s been— you know. It’s been hard. But between you, an’ just talkin’ about it— well. Tonight’s the best I’ve seen him in a long time.”

Gustave nodded, glad of it from head to toe.

“Don’t mean he ain’t been gettin’ better,” Porthos added. “He has been. Bit by bit. But this was— this was a whole lotta bits at one time. I’m so glad he has you. Glad we all do.”

Gustave laughed, realizing that the hug was coming a second before it came. He set the candle aside just in time, then let himself sag comfortably into Porthos’ familiar embrace.

“Lord,” Porthos groaned, after they’d stay this way a solid few minutes. “Ain’t been this tired in—well, probably ten years.”

“Go to bed, then.”

“I will. I am.”

“Would you like me to stay with you?” Gustave offered, feeling unexpectedly shy about it. René and his friends often shared beds, when in need of comfort, but Gustave himself never tended to. But Porthos breathed a sigh against his shoulder.

“Yes, please.”

“All right.” Gustave pulled away, and lit another candle with his own. “Take your turn in the washroom then. I need to go get my sleepshirt; I never really brought my things in.”

This earned a snort of appreciation. “Right. We’ll get you settled in the mornin’. Plan for tomorrow, I think, is restin’. Apparently, makin’ a cake. Maybe bein’ a _bit_ less emotional than we were today.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe. Go find your things; I’ll see you in a minute.”

He left then, closing the door to the washroom softly behind himself; Gustave took up his candle, intending to go into the kitchen and do as he had said.

In the corner of his eye, though, something distracted him. A drawing on the bookshelf, one of Ollie’s, framed; it was a charcoal image of four figures standing together. Gustave had never paid it much mind before. He remembered it only vaguely, and in his recollection the figures had been René, Porthos, d’Artagnan, and Olivier.

Holding his candle to it now, though, he saw that this was not the case. He recognized his brother’s silhouette, Porthos at his side, d’Artagnan beyond; the fourth figure, he now saw, was not Olivier but Athos.

Emotion stirred in Gustave’s stomach: joy and sadness and everything in between. There was more to say; there had to be.

But he was tired—from travel and from tears and warm wine on an empty stomach—and Gustave turned away and went to find his pack.

There was much to think about, of course, but there would be time in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Wow. Literally can't believe I've finally finished this. It's been something like 19 months-- longer than it took me to write the original, which had something like three times as many words. Ah, well. Life's been busy. And I've learned my lesson about starting to post a chapterfic before finishing. DON'T. I'm very happy it's finished now though. This may be the last "important" installment of this 'verse, though I have some bits and pieces lying around I'd like to share. Vaguely considering exploring more about Aramis and Gustave’s relationship in this 'verse but before anything else I think I'll get the third teacher AU up. Hopefully (!?) by the end of summer. Anyway. Thank you as always to all of you lovely people who read and comment and generally make me feel worthwhile. I genuinely appreciate you all and hope you enjoyed the last chapter here :)


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